


Resurrecting the Viper

by thehiddenbaroness



Category: Gundam Wing, 機動戦士ガンダム 鉄血のオルフェンズ | Mobile Suit Gundam: Iron-Blooded Orphans
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover of a kind, Cryogenics, Drama, Gen, Political Intrigue, Revenge, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2018-11-02 06:26:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 61,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10938852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehiddenbaroness/pseuds/thehiddenbaroness
Summary: Following a routine visit to Vingolf, Orga, Mikazuki and Merribit are surprised by the sudden appearance of a practically naked, injured woman. Although Artima seems to have full recollection of who she is, she does not seem to understand the outside world. Against Orga's better judgment, the Isaribi is soon entangled in Artima's quest to find and destroy her old mobile suit - and discover both she and it are relics from over three hundred years ago that could hold the key to Tekkadan's future.





	1. Thaw

**Chapter 1: Thaw**

 

The first time she awoke, it was as though her entire body was nothing but a dull ache. It was brief. Her eyes did not open. She felt cold.

* * *

The second time she awoke, the dull ache had strengthened into a throbbing pain, and she was still cold. She was able to force her eyes open, but her brain would not cooperate to begin to comprehend anything. Her mouth was dry, and she couldn’t move. There were bright lights above her in an otherwise nondescript, metal ceiling, and they hurt.  

Then figures in white began moving her -- her vision was too blurry to make out what they looked like -- but the pain was rapidly intensifying. She tried to see what they were doing, tried to cry out -- it felt like they were peeling her skin off. They started at her neck and worked their way down, and by the time they reached her chest she was screaming hoarsely. The pain came in pinpricks and warmed her still-cold body. She couldn’t move. They continued to work without hesitation despite her cries -- tugging that may as well have been ripping, peeling that may as well have been burning. 

When she was able to see the dark edge of what they were lifting away from her, inch after painful inch, she at first still wasn’t sure that it wasn’t her frostbitten skin. Then she remembered.

_ My pilot suit -- they’re taking the snakeskin. Kheree. They’re taking my -- _ Then she also remembered:  _ Heero.  _

She saw him forcing the hatch closed on her cryogenesis bay -- she saw his face and his hand on the glass. She fell unconscious again.

* * *

The third time she awoke, she imagined it was because her name was being called.

“Artima!” 

“Kheree!”

“Sarnai!”

“07!”

“‘Tima!”

Who was she, now? 

Her eyes opened. She was still lying on the same surface as before, but she was lying naked in her own blood. She was cold, but she was able to move a little -- just enough to drag a hand up her body to her face. She was crying, and the pain had not abated, merely changed form. Her head hurt, but the sting of thousands of tiny pinpricks in the dry air was worse. Her muscles still ached from stasis.

Her memories were a jumble. How long had she been frozen? Where was she? Why had they taken her pilot suit? Where were Taki, Heero? The Doctor?

_ Sit up, _ she coached herself. It was too difficult to sit up fully, so she compromised by easing herself onto her left side and resting on her elbow.  She could see the room better, now.

It was a fairly large operating room of sorts, with everything in steel and gray. No windows, except for the small square ones in the double doors immediately opposite. The low ceiling suggested a basement. She recognized the shadowy, damaged tube of her cryogenesis bay in one corner. Her bloody underwear lay discarded on the floor. She was alone.

She shivered in the pain, the loneliness and the cold. Her right hand tenderly felt over her body, sticky from smears of blood and old sweat and some other kind of poorly-cleaned-off gel that stank. She realized her nails had grown hideously long, as had her hair. There was nothing around for her to change into, and obviously no one had thought it important to clean her up. She didn’t even have an IV.

_ You’ve been discarded,  _ she told herself. Her lungs hurt with the deep breaths she attempted to take.  _ You need to get up, and take care of yourself -- get out of here before they get back. They do not have your best interests at heart. You can figure the rest out later. _

She essentially rolled off the operating table. Every joint protested, and her spine still felt too rigid. It seemed to take forever for her to pull on her dirty briefs, and for the first time she regretted not wearing a bra in her suit. But, there were more important things to worry about. 

_ Water first. Cut your nails, then clean yourself.  _

She dragged herself toward a row of cabinets and a sink. It took several attempts to haul herself upright enough to turn on the faucet and gulp down water in grateful handfuls. The stale gel on her hands stung in the tiny holes left behind from her suit and tasted bitter but she didn’t care. She found a scalpel next and with a weak grip that slipped several times, trimmed her nails.

As she worked, her back to the cabinet, she asked herself,  _ What is your name? _

She could see a sliver of her reflection in the blade. “For now, you are Artima Wei.”

* * *

“Vague as usual,” Merribit sighed once they were far enough away from McGillis’ office.

Orga hummed an agreement and pushed his hands into his pockets. He led them down the carpeted hall that would take them out of the executive wing, and after that, down the maze of halls that Mikazuki insisted was a shortcut to the port. Their shoes made little sound underneath them and there was just as little evidence of wear in the pile; at first the level of excess of having carpet at all had irritated him, but now, he considered it something to aim for. A different color, maybe. And just in the office.

Merribit was saying something else now, and Mikazuki making a noncommittal reply, but Orga was too lost in thought to pay attention to their exact words. He reasoned that tiredness was finally catching up to him -- that and he still disliked all the paper-shuffling he had to look forward to next. 

They left the carpet behind a sliding door. Took a left, and another. They encountered no one, which wasn’t unusual; Vingolf always had strangely quiet halls. The one they were on was curving right -- when it straightened, he remembered there would be windows on the right-hand wall.

“What wing is this?” Merribit was asking Mikazuki, though by all rights she should be the one to know.

“Don’t know. Think there’s an elevator to a basement around here too.”

They rounded the corner. Merribit yelped a “good God” and Orga’s arms instinctively shot out either side to hold his companions back -- only a few feet away was a practically naked, tall woman with grimy dark hair falling around her shoulders, hunched and armed with a scalpel. She controlled her surprise faster than they did, it seemed, and straightened; she walked directly toward them without hesitation, scalpel raised. If she was self-conscious of her nakedness she gave no indication. As she came closer Orga could see smears of blood on her bronze skin; he averted his eyes from her bare chest. Mikazuki reached for the gun in his arm sling but Orga lifted a hand in caution.

“You will take me away from this place,” she said with a rasping but determined voice. “Now.” 

“What happened to you?” Merribit whispered. 

“No questions. Let’s go,” the woman stopped and jerked the scalpel. Her dark brown eyes were narrowed.

“You’re going to threaten us with a half-inch blade?” Mikazuki said.

“More to the point,” Orga added and squinted, “you don’t know where you are, do you? Or who we are. What makes you so sure you should be leaving?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said. She wobbled a little but tried to hide it.

“Can we shoot her now?” Mikazuki asked and received a hiss from Merribit.

“Maybe we should inform Gjallarhorn that you’re wandering around when you shouldn’t be,” Orga suggested. 

Orga was surprised by the woman’s sudden dart to his left -- Merribit’s side -- followed by her expert grabbing of his arm with one hand and her other elbow rising, her ankle locking against his. He was falling before he fully knew what was happening. But what was even more surprising was how she was abruptly falling too -- a glance told him that neither Mikazuki or Merribit had moved. Orga caught his fall but the woman was staggering to one knee, breathing heavily, her eyes screwed shut. This close she smelt of chemicals. When she pitched forward she grabbed onto Merribit’s jacket to try to steady herself, and received another yelp in response.

“Oi,” Orga began.

But just as quickly the woman was up on her feet again, tucking behind Merribit. She held one of the blonde’s arms behind her back and the scalpel to her throat. Merribit had a grip on her hand but wasn’t able to pull it away. 

Orga froze where he knelt, and raised a placating hand. “Let her go.” He held her eye. If he wasn’t as alarmed as he was, he would have appreciated the trick. It had been a trick, hadn’t it?

“We’ll all leave together,” the woman said. “Once I’m satisfied, then I’ll let her go.”

Mikazuki clicked the safety off his pistol and brought it to the woman’s head -- still she did not relent.

Merribit swallowed, “It’s evident that you shouldn’t be here. We’ll take you. Willingly -- but only if you let me go.”

Orga groaned inwardly.

“That’s not what I said.”

“No, but you have a gun pointed to your head by someone who doesn’t care if you live or die. Even if you kill me, you still won’t get out of here. Better that we all live, right?” Merribit said. Like a testament, she let go of the woman’s wrist.

After a long moment, the woman said, “Withdraw your gun.”

“Lower the scalpel first,” Mikazuki said.

When still she hesitated, Orga added, “It won’t be long before someone comes along. You’re running out of time.”

She returned her gaze to his. It was another long moment before her shaking hand lowered the scalpel and she stepped away from both the gun and Merribit. Merribit slowly let out a breath of relief, and Mikazuki lowered his pistol.

“Here,” Merribit said and took off her blazer, holding it out to the woman. “It’s something, at least.”

She took it hesitantly; to put it on she notched the scalpel between her teeth like a cigarette. The blazer was too short for her, but it was indeed something.

“Let’s go,” Orga said. He picked up the pace and the others followed, Mikazuki bringing up the rear. “Your name?” he asked without turning around.

“Artima Wei.”

“Why are you here? What happened to you?” Merribit asked next.

“No more questions,” Artima said. “Just walk.”

Orga rolled his eyes. As soon as the opportunity arose he’d have to talk to Merribit about her sympathies -- this wasn’t how he planned on the afternoon going. While it was obvious that something was wrong with this woman, taking her from what must be Gjallarhorn custody wasn’t likely to help their business relationship. After all, they had no idea why they were keeping her to begin with, or who she was. What if she was an enemy? Although, he still retained his previous theory about her not knowing where she was, which seemed strange.

_ And what do we do with her when we’re back on board the Isaribi? If we get her out of here unseen, that is. _ He knew there would be cameras in the port.

“My name is Merribit Stapleton; we belong to a trade group called Tekkadan,” Orga heard the older woman say; he groaned more audibly this time. “We --” her sentence became another surprised noise, followed by, “Orga!” and a thud on the metal panels of the floor.

Orga turned, fully expecting to see another ill-advised attempt on Merribit’s life, but instead saw that Artima had collapsed unconscious. Merribit tried to hold her up but was struggling. The scalpel was discarded on the floor. “What happened?” he asked.

“I don’t know -- she just fell, and she was holding her chest like it hurt,” Merribit said. She was frowning deeply and trying to cradle Artima’s head. Almost like an afterthought she pinched a strand of her hair and rubbed, smelling then tasting her fingertips. “This is stasis gelatin,” she commented under her breath.

“What?” Orga asked, walking quickly back to them.

As though ignoring Merribit’s comment, Mikazuki said, “Good, we can just leave her.”

“Stasis gelatin -- it’s used in both medical recovery bays and cryogenics tanks,” Merribit said. “She must have recently got out of one.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Mikazuki. “We should go. She isn’t our problem.”

Orga thought for a moment, and then said, “Mika’s right.”

Merribit’s face scrunched a little, as it was wont to do when she was angry. “No. We’re not leaving her here.”

“It’s for the best,” Orga said, and began to walk away. Mikazuki fell into step beside him.

“Stop. We’re not leaving an injured and compromised woman lying in a hallway alone,” Merribit said. “No matter if she threatened us. She obviously wants to escape.”

“Yeah well maybe Gjallarhorn doesn’t want her to,” Orga called back.

“Hasn’t it occurred to you that perhaps they don’t have her best interests at heart? She obviously was not properly brought out of whatever stasis she was in, or had her wounds treated. They left her without clothes, for crying out loud. Not even prisoners are treated this way.” Merribit paused. “I will stay here if she does not go with us.”

Orga came to a stop and looked up at the ceiling for patience. “Miss Merribit, we don’t have time for this.”

Merribit’s voice was low as she said, “As you yourself said, hers is running out.”

Orga looked down at Mikazuki, but received only a shrug. 

“Orga, please.”

He supposed they could always dispose of her later. He sighed and turned on his heel, hurried back to the women. “Begging doesn’t suit you,” he said, and knelt to pick Artima up over his shoulder, trying to avoid thinking about holding onto her bare back. This close, he could see pinpricks of dried blood down her thighs. “Let’s hurry.”


	2. Artifact

**Chapter 2: Artifact**

 

“Well, I’m happy to help, though I wish you’d tell me what -- or who -- it is you’re looking for,” Naze said and leaned back in his chair, resting his chin in one hand. A line of signal interference skittered across the monitor over his face.

“It’s not important enough to bother you any more than I already have,” said Orga. “I’m grateful to you.”

“Until the next mystery, then,” Naze smiled and tipped his fingers toward the camera in a mock-salute.

“Indeed.”

After they hung up, Orga relaxed into his own chair in the office they’d recently deemed fit to equip him with aboard the Isaribi, despite his objections, and began to file through the census records Naze had managed to procure for him. Orga knew he could have asked Merribit for the errand, but not only had she been busy with the woman’s -- Artima Wei’s, he reminded himself -- care ever since their lucky escape from Vingolf, but he didn’t want her to think he was more interested in her case than he was. The only reason he wanted confirmation of her name was because it was his duty as captain to know who they were dealing with -- so much so that he was willing to spend however long it took to trawl through a few decades’ worth of census information by himself looking for clues. He never took this time to sleep anyway.

* * *

Two hours later, however, had not yielded any results whatsoever, and the records were exhausted. He’d even tried misspellings and other variations on the name.

He rubbed one eye, put down the tablet for now. “An alias, then. But even still.” He looked out of the window at the cold vacuum of space. Luckily Earth -- and Vingolf -- was far behind them.

A knock came at his door and, when he called to it, Merribit entered. “Of course you’re not sleeping,” she said by way of greeting. She glanced down at the tablet when she neared and he cursed not having turned its screen off -- ‘Wei’ was still highlighted in the search bar. “Looking for our guest, I see.”

He conceded with a smirk, but said nothing.

“And no luck, I imagine.”

“We shouldn’t be surprised that she’s given us a false name,” he said. He stood and stretched, wandering to the window.

Merribit hesitated, and Orga was surprised to see a wry smile of her own. She even bounced on her heels a little. She raised her chin, “It is an alias,” she agreed, “but there are records of it. You’re just looking in the wrong place.”

* * *

Artima shifted in the bunk she had been given in a private room, tried another spoonful of soup. She had managed approximately a bite every half an hour, and though she wanted to hurry out of hunger and the need to get back her strength, her organs were protesting every step of the way. Her escape attempt -- how long ago had that been? -- had been too much of a strain. The room was small and quiet except for the beeping of the heart monitor she had reluctantly agreed to be hooked up to, along with the IV she knew she needed. A lot of the equipment in the infirmary she had first woken up in, though, she had not recognized -- even as a L1 battle medic.

_ Does that hold any weight, anymore? _ she asked herself.  _ Does anything that I am -- that I was? _

Moreso than the ache of her recovering organs was the chasm that had opened in her soul. The things the strangely forgiving Merribit Stapleton had imparted to her piece by piece around an hour ago… the things Artima knew she had lost, to which there weren’t even any graves.

The door to the room was unlocked and opened. Merribit came inside, followed by the lilac-haired leader she had threatened. Judging by the barely-disguised, tentative questions Merribit had asked her before she left and the perplexed look on the leader’s face now, Artima knew what this was likely to be about. She waited until the door was closed.

_ I don’t have the energy to conceal facts they already know. Besides, giving them a little information will not hurt me in the long run. They need to feel complacent while I recover. _

“Your name?” Artima echoed him from before. Her voice wasn’t as rasping, but she still felt like a shade of her former self in more ways than one.

“Orga Itsuka, captain of the Isaribi and leader of Tekkadan,” he replied. He seemed a little young to have that much bravado, she thought, reined-in as it was -- but then, she knew what that was like. Hadn’t they all been like that?

The three of them were quiet for a moment, and that more than anything confirmed their intention to Artima. Merribit seemed to want to break the silence but wasn’t sure how. Artima figured she would spare her.

“One of my names is indeed Artima Wei,” she began slowly, quietly, not looking at them. “I assume you tried to find me.”

“That’s correct,” Orga said.

“I also assume you found that name in connection with others -- Heero Yuy, Taki, Duo Maxwell, Kheree, Komori, Sven Akimo. And codenames -- numbers, mostly.”

“Some, yes.”

Artima breathed in deep, stared at the teal, loose hospital garments Merribit had given her to wear. She swallowed the lump in her throat, “Around three hundred and fifty years ago, I was forcibly cryogenically frozen. I’m told the facility in which we met belongs to a military faction called Gjallarhorn. I do not know how they found me, or why I was thawed.” She paused. “By all rights I should be dead.” Her eyes rose to the window to her left.  _ I wish I was dead. I’m nothing but an artifact. _

“You said you were forcibly frozen -- why?” Orga asked.

Artima went to answer but stopped herself. She didn’t see the window anymore, only Heero’s hand on the window of the cryogenesis bay, and how all too quickly her own hand had been too heavy to raise to meet it. But her eyes had not closed quickly enough to see his hand fall. The ache was back in her chest.

“The...records mentioned you as a mobile suit pilot,” Merribit’s voice came through her thoughts as though over a great distance, and it took Artima a moment to process them. “A Gundam frame pilot, to be precise. ‘Artima Wei’ was the alias you used as a pilot during Operation Nouveau of AC211.”

Artima felt cold again, suddenly, and for the first time she could remember in a long time she missed her pilot suit. This was followed by the memory of the suit being peeled from her body. “Yes,” she whispered.

“Of the…EM7/VC Gundam 1: Khort Mogoi,” Merribit added. “I’m not familiar with that model, needless to say.”

“I’m sure Kheree is gone now, too, or decayed or dismantled at best,” Artima said without thinking. “All that was left was my pilot suit and they took that.”

“Gjallarhorn?”

Artima only glanced at Merribit by way of confirmation. 

“How old were you when you were placed in stasis?” Merribit asked delicately.

It was hard to remember. It was hard to remember what wasn’t important. “Twenty-two, I think.” Merribit seemed to want to say something else when she looked at Orga, but stopped herself -- Artima didn’t fail to note it, however. She then looked at them head-on, remembering her need to portray a compelling prisoner. “So tell me: why should I trust you, a group that trades with the very people that stripped me of all I had left and left me to rot? Even if you brought me here and gave me medical attention. Who’s to say you won’t hand me over again?”

“That’s not how Tekkadan works,” Orga said.

“Then how does it work?”

“I’d like to think we have more integrity than that,” he replied. “Until we know more about you and why Gjallarhorn may have an interest in your pilot suit, I see no reason to own up to taking you from them. Besides, isn’t this a better deal than being left to rot?”

Artima examined him a moment. There was, of course, truth to his statement. However, she was more interested in the ‘owning up’ part -- so Tekkadan, whatever that truly was, didn’t have an equal relationship with Gjallarhorn? There was perhaps leverage there, if she could find out how best to use it. “Seems we both have much to learn about the other,” she said. She did not smile.

Orga, however, did smile. “I never thought I would learn history from a living artifact.”

She did not respond to his attempt at brevity, either. Her gaze was steady and unblinking as she said, “No more questions for today. You may return tomorrow and we will deduce how best to continue.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to be giving instructions,” Orga said.

Finally Artima gave a shrewd smile, “This ‘artifact’ is probably about three hundred and sixty years your senior. ‘Tomorrow’ is a better deal than me telling you to come back when you’re older, isn’t it?”

Merribit stood between them a little and mediated, “I agree that tomorrow is a good idea. You need your rest, Ms Wei. Suspended animation isn’t the best kind of sleep. I’ll be back in a little while with normal clothes and I’m sure you’d like a shower.”

“No, it isn’t. Thank you.” Artima turned away and did not watch them leave. 

When the door was shut and locked again, she tried to take another mouthful of cold soup but her hand was shaking. She put down the spoon and pushed the rolling table away, and realized her body was shivering, too, but not from cold. Although she tried to rationalize it as her atrophied muscles aching for a stretch, she knew it was more than that. 

She raised a long-fingered hand thoughtfully to her mouth.  _ Maybe they did cure my Ryker’s Disease, like Heero speculated, but what if they didn’t and this is another attack? What if -- _

She was startled when hot tears fell on her knuckles. Her chest grew tight and her lips kneaded inside her mouth. Oh.

“Everything -- everything’s gone.” Though she tried to stifle her tears, they kept coming. Artima laid on her side and brought her knees to her chest. She thought of the irony of having been potentially cured of the very disease that was meant to shorten her life by the thing that gave her a kind of immortality over all she’d loved. It made the chasm that much deeper.

The last time she’d cried it’d been at Taki’s bedside when she’d woken up at last, after the failed raid on Adagio Industries. Taki wasn’t here when she’d woken up. Her best friend was long dead, long dust. Merely a historybook mention, like her. What had been their last conversation? It must have been on the Equinox, because after that Heero had taken her to Doctor J and Taki had gone with Duo. They hadn’t seen one another again after that. What had it been about? What had any of it been about?

_ Not what mattered, at any rate, _ Artima thought. If she had a chance to do it all again, she would have told Dr Akimo to take his Operation Nouveau and go fuck himself, and she and Taki at least could have maybe lived in peace. Relative normality. No Gundams, no Viper Construct, no secrets. To this day she didn’t know what Operation Nouveau had been about and though she was sure the reality of it had come to light in those historybooks, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Artima reached a hand through her dirty hair to the back of her neck, where her helmet’s six-needle hook-up normally left her with a permanent large scab -- it too was healed-over, gone.

* * *

McGillis stood back a few paces and watched Rustal Elion examine the upright, illuminated glass case in front of him. It had been wheeled in from the lab an hour ago especially, now that its contents had been cleaned up. The black pilot suit hung suspended, spreadeagle, the small zips on the right arm, side of the torso, and leg left undone to splay the lining open like an animal skin -- in fact, in the light the intricate pattern of short needles and the precise stitching of the thin leather made the suit look like the skin of a snake. It had been preserved -- and removed -- exquisitely. His only regret was that they did not have the corresponding helmet, or the mobile suit. But, all in good time.

Elion made a snide huff. “At this point a suit such as this is merely a museum article when compared to the Alaya-Vijnana System.” 

The response was what he expected, and wanted. Although reluctant to work too closely with Elion at all out of principle, it was of course necessary for the sake of his own goals that he at least feign cooperation to start with. “Yes, but what if such a museum article could hold the key to a more practical compromise for older pilots, without the need for surgery?” He watched Elion through the glass, saw the wheels already turning.

“And you did not keep the pilot?” He rounded the case, stood opposite McGillis.

McGillis placed his hands behind his back and smiled. “She was barely above a vegetative state -- mere chaff. Not a loss. A pilot -- even with this suit -- is nothing without their Gundam, and Gundam Khort Mogoi has been lost for centuries. Besides, wouldn’t you want a pilot of whose loyalties we are certain? A newer model, so to speak?” He paused. “Once further research is conducted, perhaps this could be the upper hand your protege Julieta desires. For example.”

“I’m intrigued by your sudden interest in working  _ with _ me rather than  _ against _ me, Fareed,” Elion said suddenly.

McGillis hesitated, averted his eyes for effect, then said, “Perhaps I was...too hasty in my judgment. Perhaps we are not so dissimilar after all. Gjallarhorn is not -- never was -- the place for private vendettas. Only by exhibiting a singular purpose can it regain its former glory; it will do us good to share information and work together to become stronger, wouldn’t you agree?” 

A beat of silence, and then Elion folded his arms, went back to examining the suit, “Of course. How refreshing to hear that from you.”

McGillis was under no illusion that Elion believed him whole-heartedly, but he knew that he would agree for now at least, which was what mattered. The next step was to ensure the destruction of the real evidence of Tekkadan leaving with the pilot, and the arrangement of the false evidence of her disposal. For much of the rest, he had to have faith in the nature of a pilot -- no matter how long that nature had been asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Note from the Author: For the sake of continuity and my narrative, I have compromised the respective After Colony (AC) and Post-Disaster (PD) timelines of Gundam Wing - from which Artima came - and Iron-Blooded Orphans, with Artima's Operation Nouveau taking place in AC211 (a few years after the events of Gundam Wing) and the PD timeline beginning roughly fifty years later. I speculate that it is during these fifty years that the Calamity War took place. Hopefully this makes sense and bridges the two series for lack of other, official information.


	3. Rumors

**Chapter 3: Rumors**

 

This time, he had her come to him. Yesterday’s presumptive issuing of instructions by their infirm guest-come-prisoner had left a bad taste in Orga’s mouth; although not the first time his authority had been challenged -- by a subordinate or someone outside their ranks -- this was different somehow. For this reason he had instructed that Mikazuki stay away for the time being until he figured it out.

_ Maybe it’s because she’s a warmed-over corpse, _ he mused.  _ There's something creepy about her. _

As though she’d heard, Merribit entered, followed by Artima. Artima, who was clean and dressed in a random assortment of all black, stood at least a head taller than the older woman, meaning it was easy for her eyes to lock immediately on Orga’s like an animal. Although Merribit gestured to one of the two guest chairs in the office, Artima skirted the edge of the room; Merribit shrugged and sat.

Orga sighed almost imperceptibly to himself and stood, offering his hand to her. Perhaps if they started over things might flow easier. She looked at it skeptically, but ventured over and shook it. He noticed as her bare arm withdrew that there was no longer any evidence of the bloody pinpricks along her body, as though they really had been made by no more than needles.

Artima remained standing by the window, however; the faint red flash of one of the lateral wing lights shone in her glossy hair. She folded her arms and leaned her slender body against the ledge. “So,” she said. Her voice had strengthened from the fragile rasp to a deeper, smoother timbre. 

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“Getting there, thank you. Though I find it unnecessary that I be locked away or escorted everywhere,” she said.

“I’m sure you can appreciate that I have to take precautions,” Orga said and sat on the corner of his desk. 

Artima looked away. When she stretched her arms above her head it pulled up the hem of the knotted T-shirt she’d borrowed. “Tekkadan… I gather that as a young, rather militant upstart it is responsible for a shake-up of the current hierarchy in the solar system, and is backing a Mars independence movement spearheaded by one Kudelia Aina Bernstein. Otherwise affiliated with Teiwaz, an independent corporation based in Jupiter that has its hands in all sorts of affairs,” she said as she rolled her head on her shoulders; he just about heard a couple of cracks. “Of course, starvation leading so easily into greed, this wasn’t enough -- enter Gjallarhorn, a so-called ‘peacekeeping’ military faction that, despite in theory being on the opposing side, you seem to have deemed necessary to support your ambitions -- or at least look the other way. All in a little over a year.” She paused, centered him in her gaze once more, “Did I leave anything out?”

Orga frowned and looked sharply at Merribit.

Her shoulders rose. “I thought volunteering information would help, but I didn’t tell her all of that. She must have read up on us using the tablet I left.”

“What else did you think I would do?” Artima said. “Anyway, go on -- your turn,” she nodded at the tablet on Orga’s desk, screen gone dark.

Though he didn’t disagree with Merribit’s approach, exactly, Orga wished she had consulted with him first. Control of information was just as useful of a strategy as volunteering it. Not to mention Artima had so easily set the pace and tone of the conversation already as a result. He resented following the twenty-something’s lead but had little choice. Hopefully something to his advantage would show up along the way.

He tried to go from memory. “Artima Wei, otherwise known as Pilot 07 in the days of Operation Meteor -- protege of Dr Sven Akimo, leader of the short-lived research corporation behind the Viper Construct, the successor to the ZERO System and a predecessor to our Alaya-Vijnana System. Pilot to the experimental Gundam Khort Mogoi, the only one ever to have had the Viper Construct installed. Mission partner to another pilot of roughly the same age known only as Taki. First and only significant mission: Operation Nouveau, in which you were both stationed in the since-destroyed city of Nouveau under the impression of protecting it from unnamed invaders who were after an even more unknown ‘secret’ -- add in a pair of equally-misled veteran Gundam pilots from Operation Meteor, and the Operation became chaos.” Artima didn’t object. “Chaos, that would have been an acceptable byproduct if it hadn’t been for the ultimate betrayal of Dr Akimo and the revelation that it was all a ruse -- that there was no secret to protect. That you were meant to destroy yourselves. And you did. All of you.” He tipped his head to one side, enjoying her shocked expression more than he thought he would. “Did I leave anything out?”

It took her a moment but she steeled herself -- relaxed the fist she’d clenched at her elbow, hooded her eyes, breathed in deep. “You have the advantage of studying a history that has long been concluded after I stopped participating.” She turned her back to them and looked out the window.

Orga couldn’t make out her expression in her reflection, but he was re-evaluating her words and reaction and reconsidering his enjoyment of it when Merribit spoke.

“You mean, you didn’t know,” she said softly. “That it was…” She blinked a couple of times and stared at the rug. 

_ Well fuck, _ Orga thought. He’d wanted to put Artima in her place, but not like this. Merribit was looking at him expectantly. He wasn’t sure what to say. 

“I would like to return to my room, Ms Merribit,” Artima said into the tense silence.

Merribit gave Orga a more exasperated look as she rose. Orga struggled to pull some kind of half-apology, half-condolence out of thin air that wouldn’t smack of kowtowing. He remembered one other detail from his research. “If it means anything, apparently your mission partner had enough sense to hide your Gundam. You’re right in that it was never found.” When she didn’t stop walking toward the door, he elaborated, “I know what the Alaya-Vijnana System is like. If I had a chance to do it all over again, and our world was different...I wouldn’t recommend it for anyone. So, I can imagine what the Viper Construct must have been like --”

“No, you can’t,” Artima said, pausing. She looked over her shoulder, gave a crooked smile, “Which is a good thing.”

“Then it must be some small consolation to know that no one else was subjected to it, that even if its successor had to be given to children in order to work, that it was an improved successor?”

Her smile became wan. “If that helps you sleep better.” 

“It doesn’t. Not to me personally at any rate. Because what was the point in taking your suit if it wasn’t somehow useful, even without its Gundam,” Orga said. He got off the desk and went to sit in his chair behind it. “Your era of the Viper Construct and the ZERO System is over, but I still have to live in mine.” 

“You’re more astute than I gave you credit for.”

He chose not to comment on that. “Then maybe it’s in both our interests to work together.”

Artima turned away again. “There’s nothing to work together on. You have nothing to offer me, and all I can offer you is a warning that it’s a possibility that soon, your Alaya-Vijnana System won’t be restricted by age, or require surgery.” She opened the door for herself. “I think we’re done here.”

With another eyeroll at him, Merribit followed Artima out and the door shut behind them. Orga sighed and rubbed his temple. No doubt Merribit would be back later to lecture him; in the meantime, he had to figure out what to do about their relic of a guest. If she wasn’t going to cooperate in any way and it was risky to have her on board, surely in was in their best interests to discard her?

_ It was a mistake to take her with us to begin with, _ he thought.  _ Then again, Gjallarhorn was going to discard her too. If I did that now, I’d be little better than them. _ He wondered if he should talk to Naze about this. On the one hand -- particularly if they discarded her -- it could end up being inconsequential, not worth bothering him about, but on the other -- particularly if her warning rang true and Gjallarhorn somehow managed to make use of an antiquated suit -- this could be the seed of something much larger. 

After warring a little more with himself, Orga picked up his tablet. He was about to put through a private call to Naze when he was startled by another call coming through -- voice only. Despite the garble of an encrypted ID, he knew who it was. He felt a tingling along his spine, wondering if their escape from Vingolf hadn’t been as lucky as he first thought, then quashed it and answered.

“Did we leave something behind?” Orga said.

“Not at all. I hope this isn’t a bad time?” McGillis asked, though Orga knew there wasn’t any truth behind the sentiment.

“Would I have any right to say it was?”

McGillis hummed in amusement. “I’ll keep it brief. I’ve heard rumors that Gjallarhorn has...misplaced something important to them.”

Orga nearly sighed at the theatrics were it not for the resurgence of the anxiety he’d felt earlier. “‘Misplaced’?”

“This coincides with an interesting additional rumor of a cryogensis bay being brought from Dort 3 around a week ago -- a bay that’s now empty, with its contents nowhere to be found. I’m speculating that whomever was in that bay was important to them, and has since gone missing.”

“Surely if it’s important to ‘them’, it’s important to you? You’re still Gjallarhorn,” Orga half-grumbled. “Why are you telling me this? What does Tekkadan care about rumors?”

There was the slightest of pauses, then McGillis answered, “Although I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, I would check your ship for stowaways. And if you happen to hear or see anything more, I’d be grateful if you could let me know. Of course, you’re right in that this could potentially be important to my own aims, too.”

Orga considered this. It sounded like a deliberate fishing for evidence, but one that was surprisingly revelatory for McGillis as well -- for something to be mere ‘rumor’ to him, it was more important than he was letting on. He figured he would test the water. “If we find anything?”

“Don’t bring it back here. Notify me only.”

Orga frowned, and at length said, “All right. Is that all?”

“That’s all. Oh -- and you asked why Tekkadan should care about this rumor -- there will of course be a significant reward should you uncover anything. Until next time.” The connection ended.

Orga set the tablet back down and audibly groaned. So not only was Gjallarhorn interested in retrieving Artima, but McGillis did not want them to get her back. Were it to come to light that she was aboard the Isaribi, not only would they have to deal with Gjallarhorn, but also fend off the ire of Teiwaz for the inconvenience. Not to mention figure out what McGillis wanted to do with her -- and it was no longer unreasonable to suspect that he didn’t already know where Artima was.

_ But if they want the pilot for the suit, what’s the point without the Gundam that the suit belongs to? They can’t adapt both pilot and suit to a new unit -- although it might be possible to put the suit itself in a new unit. So what’s the point in trying to get her back? Something doesn’t add up. _

Orga leaned forward and idly scrolled through the various scraps of information on Artima, the Viper Construct, Operation Nouveau, all of it. Buried under most of the other windows on the screen was a out-of-focus picture of Gundam Khort Mogoi -- little more than a small, streamlined silhouette emerging from a cloud of smoke and fire. He’d kept it to one side as a sort of mechanic’s curiosity, but now he brought it up full-screen. There was a red sheen on the black metal, just as there had been mere minutes ago in the hair of its pilot.

_ What if you’re not really lost? _


	4. Conditions

**Chapter 4: Conditions**

 

The next day, following some settling of other, normal business, Orga’s mind turned yet again to what to do about their guest. As if on cue, Merribit came onto the bridge for her shift at the communications console.

“We’ll talk later,” Orga said when she eyed him expectantly.

“Now that you’re both here,” Eugene said, surprising him. “Either of you feel like explaining who that chick is we’ve got on board?”

“What woman?” Orga feigned.

“Ride said there’s a chick working out in the hangar.”

Orga rolled his eyes and looked at Merribit, who shrunk a little in her chair.

“Nadi was going to keep an eye on her for me. She needs to exercise,” Merribit said. “It’s not like she can get out.”

At last he snapped. “I appreciate that much of the responsibility for our guest falls to you, Ms Merribit, but I am the captain of this ship. Any decisions about her freedoms or what information she is given should go through me.” He stood and left the bridge. It wasn’t until he was out in the corridor that he saw Eugene had followed him. “I can handle this myself.”

Eugene swiped at his nose with a thumb. “Oh yeah I’m sure you can. I just want to see for myself -- historically-speaking all the women you’ve brought on board have been lookers. Don’t worry, don’t worry, we’re on autopilot and they’ll call me if something’s up.”

Orga didn’t feel like arguing. This was already more effort than he felt like expending and he had the six-minute walk to the hangar to come up with a plan of action -- give Ms Wei back to Gjallarhorn, or drop her off someplace. Or --

_ Or?  _ he interrupted himself.  _ You can’t be seriously thinking that keeping her around would bring an advantage? Even if she weren’t a relic -- and a bitchy one at that -- she’s another mouth to feed. A liability. _

“You’re not listening to me,” Eugene said and sighed.

He could imagine what was being said, though. “Our guest is complicated. I’m having difficulty assessing what to do with her, which is why her presence hasn’t been publicized.” He wished Biscuit was here.  _ What to do with her? What to do -- _

Eugene chuckled. “I know women are complicated but how hard can this one be?”

How to even begin? “She’s...old. Very old. So to speak.” 

“Huh?” 

All too soon the hangar was upon them and Eugene tapped a fist on the button to part the door. They stepped onto the gallery that wrapped around over half of the huge space and in the process, into the noise of Nadi and the boys performing maintenance on the frames. Gravity was at half, per normal, and Orga tapped a waylaid crescent wrench out of his way. He couldn’t see Lafter or Azee, which was unusual and, perhaps, fortunate.

Because what he did see was how much of the activity had formed a wide, semicircular berth around a figure in black who could only be Artima. Every so often Nadi would bark at an onlooker to get back to work, but the younger boys seemed wary and interested in her. She was using the space between the far gallery, the hangar floor, and the Landman Rodi to perform what appeared to be, from this distance, slow aerial acrobatics. It didn’t take Orga long to find Mikazuki supervising from a small ways away from his seat against the wall. He peered at her from between his upraised knees, but Artima appeared to pay him no attention. Orga headed for him and was relieved by his presence.

“That her?” Eugene leaned in and asked him. “She’s not old.”

Who else could it be?  _ And what to do with her? What to say? What to do? _

“She’s not armed, right?”

“No,” Orga said, though he was only ninety-nine percent sure. 

“What’s she doing? Showing off? I like it already.”

It was just aerobatics. Just stretching, just...gymnastics. There was no purpose. Just lifting, floating under a momentum, tucking, turning, twisting, striking out and rising to something unseen. The more he watched it the faint feeling Orga had that it was not just aerobatics began to grow. Certain moves were repeated over and over in the fourteen-foot-wide space. 

“She’s piloting,” Orga muttered to himself. He wasn’t sure how he knew but he knew.  _ Why? _

They were beside Mikazuki now. He looked up at Orga and, when nothing was said or asked, returned to watching Artima. She did not stop for them. Would she stop for anyone?

“Orga, where did you pick this one up?” Eugene muttered.

“She picked us,” Orga muttered back. He had to focus. “Behave yourself.” He raised his chin and his voice, “Ms Wei.” There. It was in motion. He’d figure it out -- as soon as she came back to them.

She caught herself on Longman Rodi’s convex chest, looked down her body at them, pushed off. She brought herself upright and let momentum carry her forward.

Mikazuki stood. “She should stay with us,” he said, quietly.

Orga was shocked -- it was rare that Mikazuki recommended a course of action to him, particularly when they hadn’t discussed it. What was worse was that he didn’t understand the rationale behind it, but there was no time to ask. Artima had reached the rail and brought herself over to their side.

“Let me guess -- I’m in the way here, and it’s off-limits,” she said and folded her arms. In the absence of mag-soled boots she sat on the rail and hooked one leg around the railpost to anchor herself. 

Orga smiled thinly at her. This close, it was easier to see that some vitality seemed to have returned to her, although there was still an understandable sadness in her hooded eyes. 

“Eugene Sevenstark, Deputy Captain,” Eugene butted forward and held out a hand to her. 

There was skepticism in her eyes as she accepted his hand and shook it briefly, but she did not, however, return a name. A blink, and her eyes were on Orga expectantly.

He didn’t want to, but said, “This is Ms Artima Wei.” Somehow the less people that knew her name, the better. But then, it was right that Eugene know. It’d come out eventually anyway. He was also reluctant to truly describe her to Eugene in front of her.

“So to what do we owe the pleasure of such a fine lady’s company?” Eugene continued when neither Orga or Artima elaborated.

“She’s a pilot without her mobile suit,” Mikazuki said and earned a sharp look from Artima.

“Oh really! Great,” Eugene said.

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Orga tempered.

Artima seemed to lose interest in the three of them. She turned instead to the work being conducted in the rest of the hangar, watching the boys float to and fro. “All of you are very young,” she said. “And piloting.”

“Heh, we’re not  _ that  _ young, Ms Wei. Some of us anyway,” Eugene said.

“You are,” she said. “How many of you have had the surgery?”

Orga couldn’t quite tell the tone in which she’d asked, but he answered, “A dozen or so.”

“Then some of those who pilot are children.”

Orga hesitated, and then said, “We had no choice.” Why did she care, anyway?

“But you do now.”

“We do, and only those who choose to continue piloting in any way are asked to. I should add that there are only about four or five of us who pilot combat units regularly, as you did.”

She was frowning. “We were children, too.”

“‘We’?” Eugene repeated.

Orga was aware of who she meant, but was also aware that yet again she was steering the conversation. “It’s no longer your concern.”

“Don’t get me wrong, it’s interesting that history is repeating itself -- I’d just rather it wasn’t repeating itself on children,” she said, and at last turned away from the workers. After a moment’s silence she continued. “Eventually Heero Yuy told me that he wanted to kill me -- kill us both -- so that the ZERO System and the Viper Construct would die with us, and never be inflicted on another human being ever again. Of course you see that that didn’t happen. He saved me. And even if all the research and the Gundam frames had vanished forever, by doing that he insured that this...this poison lived on. In me.”

Orga ignored the confused looks he could see Eugene giving him in his periphery.  

Artima’s chin lifted a little and she looked away at the Landman Rodi. “But me living on...also entails that the means of fulfilling his wish has survived, too. In poor condition, mind you, but survived nonetheless.”

Orga couldn’t help but expel a huff of laughter at that. “What, now you intend to destroy the entire Alaya-Vijnana System and every machine and pilot using it?”

She didn’t answer right away. “Beyond me, I know. But there is one step I can take for now.”

Orga searched her face, tried to keep ahead of her. What kind of conversation was this, anyway? She had seemed sympathetic earlier and now she might be an enemy? In her situation? Then he remembered. “The Khort Mogoi. You want to destroy it. Where would your mission partner have hidden it?”

Her eyebrows rose with an ironic smile, “Earth.”

“We just came from there…” Eugene groaned.

Orga empathized. He didn’t particularly want to go back in Gjallarhorn’s direction much less delay their return to Mars, especially for some harebrained vendetta held by a recently-defrosted war criminal that he wasn’t entirely sure was on their side. Not to mention there was McGillis’ reward, and the ire of Gjallarhorn  _ and _ Teiwaz to consider. Teiwaz would be bound to ask questions if the Isaribi took a sudden, unpaid detour.

_ You still don’t know what to do, _ Orga chastised himself.  _ You should have called Naze sooner than this. It’s going to get out of hand. _

To make it worse Artima was speaking again. “You will take me with you to Mars. From there I will find my own way.”

Eugene laughed. “Mars isn’t exactly a commercial district. Soon as we land you’ll just be contracting Tekkadan to take you back.”

But Orga’s attention was taken by Mikazuki’s nudge, and the sharp frown on his face. He remembered the younger man’s earlier insistence that Artima should stay with them. Now Orga thought he understood why.  _ If she gets out of our hands, she’s off the leash -- dangerous in itself, but that also means we lose our chance to capitalize on her. And if McGillis finds out we had her all along and let her go, we’ll be on his bad side. _

She was looking at him with a piercing gaze. Orga shifted feet; it felt like she knew what he was thinking. 

“Hey boss, why don’t I show Ms Wei around?”

Orga was about to object but, without looking away, Artima said, “That won’t be necessary, Mr Sevenstark --”

“Oh just Eugene is fine.”

“-- I’ll wait in my cell out of the way while your captain makes up his mind.” She showed herself out of the hangar.

After a few moments of staring at the door through which she’d left and ignoring the numerous inquisitive looks he was getting, Orga said, “I’m going to call Naze on the bridge com. But first -- Eugene, go get Akihiro and Shino, and Lafter and Azee come to think of it, and bring them. It’s time I was honest with you.”

* * *

Artima was surprised that it was only an hour later when a knock came on her door. Although a small part of her was hoping it was food, she was disappointed to see that it was the short one with black hair -- Mikazuki, if she recalled correctly. He stood in the doorway with his free hand in the pocket of his oversized coat, while his other arm remained in a sling. She wondered what that was about, since the arm didn’t seem cast for a break. That aside, from what she remembered of the med bay and what Merribit had told her, comparatively minor injuries like breaks and fractures could easily be healed without the need for prolonged use of a sling or cast.

She came away from the window. “Did he send you to kill me?”

“No.”

“To put me in an escape pod, then, and abandon me to the void?”

He shifted feet. “No. I’m here to escort you to the bridge.”

“A public execution then,” Artima said with a wry smirk and walked out of her room. “Though I’m surprised he didn’t send someone taller.”

“I’m tall enough for what I need to do.” He took the lead again.

“And what’s that?” 

He did not answer her, and she was left to her assumptions -- a pilot or bodyguard, perhaps, though he still seemed young for either. He seemed about the age she had been when she’d first seen action -- younger than when she’d graduated as a battle medic, at eighteen, at any rate. From what she’d seen in the hangar, most of the bodies on this ship were barely teenage and it’d made her uncomfortable to watch children working on the mobile suits so happily. She presumed the rest of the active crew weren’t much older than their captain and she had to wonder about the presence of not only the large mechanic in the hangar, but of Merribit Stapleton, the only two adults she’d seen besides herself.

_ I’ve landed myself in a spacebound nursery, _ she thought. 

But that trivialized what she was seeing. She knew better than most the ugly, pervasive vein of child slavery that ran beneath extraterrestrial exploration and militarization. What was truly perplexing was the shared willingness of all these kids and teenagers to continue working toward some lofty goal; the unlikelihood of them reaching that goal saddened her a little.

_ I’m glad you didn’t see this, Heero,  _ she thought.  _ At least in our time, only a handful of us were on the front lines. From what I gather, though...whatever happened while I was asleep has made conditions rife for even deeper exploitation, for more pervasive dogmas to take root. Humanity apparently nearly destroyed itself in the Calamity War but I’m not so sure they’ve taken themselves off course for doing it again. Once you corrupt your children… _ her steps slowed and she watched Mikazuki continue ahead, before catching up. She remembered Orga’s words:  _ “Your era of the Viper Construct and the ZERO System is over, but I still have to live in mine.”  _

The door to the bridge opened, and Mikazuki wandered over to the captain’s chair without seeing if Artima followed. Artima scanned the room rapidly. Front and foremost onscreen was the com image of a man in a white suit seated in a leather chair, with a dark-haired woman on the arm; Orga was in the captain’s chair opposite, Mikazuki now beside him; not only were the two aft seats occupied, but the two siderunner seats were too, including Merribit on the right-hand side; Eugene, two other older teenage boys, and two young women around her age crowded the rest of the remaining space. Everyone was looking at her.

“So you did finally find yourself a woman, eh, brother!” the man on-screen laughed. The woman next to him smiled. Despite the comment it was a relief to see another adult.

“Nothing like that, I assure you,” Orga said.

“So this lovely lady is your problem,” the man said. The crowd parted for her somewhat as he added, “Naze Turbine, captain of the Hammerhead and head of Teiwaz’s transport branch. A pleasure, Ms Wei, despite my learning that you’ve caused my colleague quite the dilemma.”

_ So he called his overseer on me,  _ Artima realized with a glance at Orga. “I’d say I’ve made things as straightforward as one could hope them to be,” she said and stepped forward. “All I’ve asked is to be brought to Mars.”

“Whereupon in order to get off it again you will have to contract us. I don’t imagine your wallet was frozen with you,” Naze said. His voice was oddly light as he continued, “But that’s the least of all our problems. You have no idea what kind of situation you put us in. Your very existence has changed the operating conditions for not one, but two crews now, as well as having stirred up some ugly things in one of the most powerful organizations in the solar system at a time when we really do not need the attention.” He crossed his legs the other way; the woman rubbed and squeezed his shoulder. “If you were wondering, I suggested to Orga that he simply bring you back to Gjallarhorn as a discovered stowaway and wash our hands clean of you. However, my little brother here is quite the ambitious sort, as I’m sure you noticed.”

Artima wasn’t sure she liked where this was going. “There’s still time to bring me back,” she sneered.

“Of course there is, and you’d think that would be a straightforward solution but it isn’t. Bringing you back is not in the best interests of  _ anyone _ in the solar system. And as I said, these are turbulent times. To that end, we’d like to propose a deal.”

Artima relaxed one hip and put a hand on it. “I’m listening.”

“We will turn around,” Orga spoke up. “Go back to Earth.” 

She turned around to face him. Judging by the shifting and sighing of many in the room this wasn’t a popular decision, but no one outright objected -- Artima assumed it must have all been discussed and decided before she got here.

Orga continued, “Our objective will temporarily, and only to an extent, align with yours -- to find your Gundam, should it still exist, and possibly retrieve your suit from Gjallarhorn. This is on the condition that you serve under Teiwaz -- Tekkadan in particular -- to further Kudelia Aina Berstein’s aims as a way of settling your debt.”

“Which’ll be pretty large, since this involves keeping you out of Gjallarhorn’s hands,” added Naze.

Artima didn’t like the idea of servitude, but there didn’t seem much way around this at present. And there was no denying that even if she could locate Kheree on her own, and even if she could get it repaired and operational, that it was practically unpilotable without the snakeskin. She wasn’t familiar enough with Gjallarhorn to attempt an infiltration on her own. She could always fulfil her own goals after they succeeded in getting suit and Gundam back. In the meantime, though, she had to think fast.

_ “Think fast!” _ she suddenly remembered her and Taki yelling it at each other, throwing things at each other, running after one another, the first day they’d met at the dojo. Pieces began to fall into place. Although it could only be a bluff until she was sure it still existed, and she didn’t want to, she now knew what her bargaining chip could be.  _ I’m sorry, Taki.  _ She held her wrists behind her back, turning to include both Orga and Naze as best she could. “A year.”

“Huh?” Eugene prompted.

“I will serve for a year only after both Gundam and pilot suit are retrieved. As you said,” she looked at Orga, “we are only useful when the three of us are together.” Naze began to object so she clarified, “As an incentive, I will teach you what I know, and help you find a second Gundam that will give you a heads-up on a far different danger you may face.”

“A different danger?” Merribit, behind her, asked.

Artima couldn’t help but smile. “No one around here, or in anything I’ve been reading, seems to have talked much about the ‘Mobile Armors’ from the Calamity War.”

“Mobile Armors?” one of the older crewmen, whose name she did not know, asked. 

“If I remember right… completely automated, highly destructive mobile units. The Calamity War ended with their destruction.” Merribit shook her head and shrugged, “They’re not talked about because they’re gone and the technology forbidden. If they don’t exist any longer then there’s nothing to worry about.”

Artima’s smile dropped. “I was gone, and all of you seem to be going to great lengths to worry about me. And if my technology is being revived, who’s to say they won’t, too?” She paused, turned back to the captains. “Where do you think that technology came from?” When no one responded, she said, “The Mobile Dolls of my era, but perfected in an alternate mode of my mission partner’s Gundam.”

“So you want to find that one too, in exchange for a shortening of your service,” surmised Naze.

“It’s to your benefit,” said Artima.

“I’m not convinced that it is,” he drawled, “but, ultimately, the decision does not lie with me.”

Artima looked at Orga and waited. His head was resting on one hand and he was examining her. She wondered if he would actually come to a decision himself, this time.

“It’s enough of a gamble to think we can find the Khort Mogoi, much less the Komori,” he said. She was surprised he’d learnt the name.

“You’re already gambling. You were gambling before you even ran into me,” she said. “Go big or go home.”

Naze laughed. “Nail on the head, that one.”

Orga’s eyes met Artima’s. “Three.”

She thought about arguing. But then, she supposed she was pushing the envelope enough as it was and she had no intention of serving them after she’d got what she wanted. What did it matter if she said one, or three, or ten, or life?

“Agreed,” she said. 


	5. Trust

**Chapter 5: Trust**

 

AC 206, March 2 nd , 11:20 a.m.  

_ Four hundred and twenty-nine years ago _

 

_ Artima drifted farther and farther away from the conversation between her Master and the stranger they’d come to see, known as ‘Toki’. She’d watched him for long enough to get as much information as she felt she needed to form a profile of who he was, and soon after they’d started talking in lower and lower voices, but not really saying anything at all. She knew it was all probably code for something, but why they couldn’t just come out and say it – because she knew it was probably about her – bored her to death. The Master would tell her later anyhow. She hoped. _

_ The garden was beautiful, she had to admit. After so long aboard the Equinox out in the cold lightshow of space, it was almost overwhelming to hear the crunch of gravel, smell the trees closing in around her like clouds, feel a breeze on her face tickling her eyelashes. Natural light itself was dazzling – much more far-reaching than a bath of fluorescent light. She felt like it was reaching through her skin. It was spring, her first spring on Earth in a long while, and the peace settled on her. _

_ Artima looked around, noticed no one looking, and took off her boots so she could feel the gravel and constructed streams of sand underfoot. She began to follow one of these streams, occasionally stepping on and off a large flat rock meant for crossing. She looked back at her footprints, allowing herself the awe. The stream passed out of sunlight and into the shade of a group of bronze-barked trees bursting with violet flowers and tender young leaves, their limbs strong and weaving. The sunlight came through them dappled onto her bare legs.  _

_ The Master had allowed her more casual clothing, even allowed her to buy something fashionable for the occasion. She’d seen businesswomen in Earth advertisements wearing tailored thigh-length shorts underneath their longer tunic-like blouses with their hems split up to the waist, and this was what she’d chosen to adopt for her visit. Her tunic blouse was sleeveless, though, its high collar unbuttoned to the fresh air, and its embroidered hem tickled her knees. The amber color of the whole outfit darkened to burnt orange in the shade. _

_ Artima looked around again, and reached up to test one branch’s strength. It was surprisingly solid. She pulled herself up onto it, shifting closer to the trunk and climbing farther up into the cloud of sweet scent. She found a spot where she could see the whole garden through the bundles of blossoms; it stretched around the southern and eastern side of the dojo in a band as wide as a Gundam, filled with man-made rises, ponds, small waterfalls, trees and rock plantings, and several meditation areas of smooth, painted wood or concrete overlooking pools of sand and pebble mandalas. Her little gathering of trees was on the southeastern corner. As far as she could tell, no one else was in the gardens apart from her Master and the dojo master Toki. Where was everyone? _

_ Not that it mattered, she supposed. Artima adjusted herself to sit on the branch, simply listening to the birdsong and breathing in the perfume of the flowers. Then, she suddenly felt like she was being watched. She craned her long body to look around and below her, but no one was there. Huffing at her own ridiculousness, she went back to staring around her at the architecture of the trees. Abruptly, her eyes met another’s. Artima blinked, refocusing. In what she presumed was the next tree over, a pair of striking green eyes belonging to a red-headed girl stared back at her, neither alarmed, offended or curious. She looked about Artima’s age, and was sitting with her back against another tree limb crossing over the one beneath her, her arms perched on her upraised bare knees. Artima didn’t know what to say or do. Who was this? She didn’t look like a member of the dojo, what with her combat shorts and cropped vest top, her fingerless cycle gloves. _

_ “Nice day for a climb!” The girl suddenly burst into a smile.  _

_ “Yes, I guess it is,” Artima replied. Had the girl been watching her? _

_ “You’re new here.” Guess so.  _

_ “By ‘here’, do you mean…” _

_ “Both, I’d say. Dojo and Earth.” _

_ “I’m not new to Earth. It’s just been a while.” _

_ “Oh.” _

_ There was silence. Artima figured if the girl wasn’t going to introduce herself, she wouldn’t either. “Sorry if this is your tree,” Artima said without knowing why.  _

_ “I figure this is a good sign,” the girl shrugged. _

_ “What?” _

_ “That we both go climb trees.” _

_ Artima’s eyebrows twitched upward. Had she just run into the resident eccentric? _

_ “I mean, first I thought you were just some business lady – you dress like one – then I –” _

_ “Wait, you mean you’ve been watching me ever since I got here?” _

_ “Yes. – then I looked a bit closer and noticed how you were walking and looking around and how you climbed up here, so I can only figure you must be who Toki talked about.” _

_ Artima was definitely confused now. “You’re not making any sense.” _

_ “Bullshit, I make total sense.” The girl sighed, stood on her branch and began to climb closer. “Come on, think about it. You’re probably trained to do the same thing, watch how people move and so on – that’s what you were doing to my Master, weren’t you? It’s what you’re doing now.”  _

_ Indeed, Artima was watching the ease with which the girl negotiated the branches and within seconds was sitting in front of her, perfectly balanced.  _ One thing at a time, _ she told herself. “Toki’s your Master?” she said. _

_ “Yeah, just like that other’s guy’s yours.” _

_ “The Doctor.” _

_ For a second the girl paused, a flash of something peculiar in her eyes before it was gone. “Yeah, okay.” The girl looked at her curiously. “You don’t know why you’re here, do you?” _

_ It crossed Artima’s mind that this might all be a trick for information. What if this girl was a spy? What if she’d broken into the dojo, which was why she was gallivanting in trees? If Toki was her Master, why wasn’t she with him? _

_ “I’m about to be your mission partner, if they’d stop all the flimflam and straight-out tell you about it.” She held out her hand with a smile. “I’m Taki, Pilot 06.” _

_ There was something so overwhelmingly genuine and almost…refreshingly innocent, or maybe just candid, about her that Artima took her offered hand, chose to believe that maybe this was true. “Artima Wei.” _

_ “Pilot 07,” Taki grinned. “So, that an alias? I always thought I’d like to have an alias.” _

_ “Artima Wei? Yes and no.” Artima frowned, “Why didn’t they tell me?” _

_ “Beats me. Think they’ll tell you today, though.” A pause. “Hey, what you frowning about? Smile. It isn’t so bad. We’re about to become the next in a glorious history! Follow zeros one to five and all the work they did. Be  _ Gundam _ pilots. What could be better?” _

_ Artima smiled half-heartedly. “Maybe.” _

_ “Maybe?” Taki repeated incredulously. _

_ “Okay, you’re right, you’re right.” _

_ “That’s better.” Taki smiled wickedly. She reached up and tugged rather violently on a thinner branch, dislodging petals and whole flowers that rained down on them. She laughed at Artima’s look. “Ha! Your face!” _

_ Artima smiled crookedly back and reached behind her, “Oh, if that’s how it is…” she steadied herself. “Think fast!” She threw a bunch of flowers at Taki’s face, forcing her to let go of the branch to catch it. Artima stood on the branch and began to clamber down. More petals started to fall as they moved around. _

_ “This is getting entirely too romantic for my liking! Where’s a stick…” _

_ Artima looked back at her in mock-shock, then jumped to the ground as the redhead came after her. She barely had time to slip her boots back on before Taki swung at her with a branch full of blossoms. Taki began to chase her. Artima wasn’t quite sure what she was doing; she hadn’t run around like a child like this for years. _

_ “Ah! Sand in the face! Cheat!” _

_ “You started it!” _

_ “No rocks!” _

_ “No rocks.” _

_ Their feet pounded on decking as they headed for the main meditation platform surrounded by a large pond. A group of five students and a teacher had assumed the crane position, balanced on one foot and their eyes closed. The teacher’s gentle intonations were drowned by the shrieking of the two young women as Taki caught Artima by the arm with one hand, and with the other swept pond water with the flowering branch into Artima’s face. Artima ducked down and splashed more water, including a floppy water-lily leaf, at Taki, and ran again into the meditation zone. The pair dodged between the unfortunate students, using them as barriers and nearly making them topple. The teacher chattered at them disapprovingly. _

_ Artima grabbed onto the branch, by now almost bereft of flowers, as she nearly lost her footing on the edge of the platform. Taki grabbed onto a dislodged student as they began to topple. All three fell into the pond, scattering fish and lilies in all directions. When they surfaced, the student clung immediately to the platform and a couple of his fellows began to try to pull him out.  _

_ “This is meant to be a pond! I can’t feel the bottom!” Artima said. _

_ “Think fast!”  _

_ Artima shrieked as a broken water lily hit her in the face. She threw it back. “Think fast!” She flung herself onto her back and began to backstroke rapidly in the direction of the dojo and shallower water. Taki began to breast-stroke after her. In the shallows, they paused to catch their breath and laugh, then carried on. _

_ They crashed through the reeds and into the giant black bamboo screening the building, and after much pushing and shoving, having acquired appropriate poking sticks, onto the polished porch. Dead bamboo leaves flew off them in their wake. Heedless of other residents, Artima and Taki alternately ran and chased, stopping here and there to try to poke or hit each other with the short bamboo sticks. The training they’d both had belied their childlike behaviour, adding trained fight-like and dance-like moves to the laughter and the shouts. Every so often a stick would be dodged with a jump or duck, countered with a kick or block. ‘Think fast’ echoed around the dojo. _

* * *

PD 324

_ Present _

 

Merribit heard the door to the infirmary slide open; she paused her rearranging of the supplies and looked over her shoulder to see that Orga had entered, hands in his pockets as usual. She’d been hoping for a visit from Nadi -- a glance at her watch told her it was his rest break -- but she finished what she was doing and stood. If she was honest with herself she’d been impatient to get this conversation over with, but was also too tired to deal with it. Not that there was much choice. She waited for him to speak first, idly cleaning off the counter by the sink.

“Ms Wei is not to enter the hangar, and the bridge only by invitation. Everywhere else, she can go. Can you tell her when you next see her?”

Merribit sighed. “Firstly, you’re more than capable of telling her yourself, and secondly, that can’t be what you came all the way down here for.” She washed her hands just to have something to do. When he still hadn’t responded by the time she was done, she dried her hands and folded her arms, scrutinizing him. He seemed preoccupied. “You know, if you just talked to her you might find that she isn’t as intimidating as you think. Look at you -- I’ve not seen you this worked up in a while. How is it that you can talk to the likes of McGillis and McMurdo without an issue, but with someone like Artima it’s a different story?”

He frowned. “It’s different. McGillis and the Old Man are established powers. They understand our world. I don’t like the way Ms Wei is so easily directing our course. I don’t even know how she manages it. She just came out of nowhere. And I don’t understand how you can accept her so easily.”

Merribit wandered to sit on a neatly-made bed. She thought back to the few conversations she’d managed to have with Artima over the past couple of days. “She’s just a woman, Orga. There’s no great mystery as far as I’m concerned. Her persuasiveness comes from having come out of left field and having seen a lot, only to lose it all. It’s also possible that she has more experience in these kind of situations. I think it disconcerts you because you’re alike. You and Mikazuki came out of nowhere, too, for the rest of us. You’ve changed our course despite our best efforts,” she winked at him in an attempt to lighten the mood. She paused. “As for me, she’s close to my age. I’d missed that about being aboard the Hammerhead. We have things in common, too, though of course she remains very guarded about her life and Operation Nouveau.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t trust her.”

“You’ve made that abundantly clear.” She lifted her chin, squinted a little. “But hasn’t it occurred to you that she might be more trustworthy if you placed some trust in her? Have a little compassion, Orga. She’s grasping at straws. And what happens if we don’t find her Gundam and can’t retrieve her suit? She’ll truly have nothing. I believe she wants to trust someone. Where’s the harm?”

Merribit grew increasingly suspicious when Orga wouldn’t meet her eye. She searched his face, went over his words again. He wandered through the med-bays away from her.

“Wait...you said you  _ can’t _ trust her. Not that you  _ don’t _ ,” she said.

“It isn’t practical for what may have to be done,” Orga said into the empty room. 

Merribit couldn’t believe her ears. “‘What may have to’…? You can’t seriously be thinking of going back on your word, somehow?” When he didn’t answer right away, she said, “What’s happened to you?”

“I hope it won’t come to that,” Orga said and turned around. His face was solemn. “But I have to think of contingency plans to protect this family.”

Merribit felt an unexpected surge of bitterness. “So what, you’re telling me in order to test me?”

“No --”

“Yes, you are.” There was a stung pause. “You think I’d give her a heads-up. You don’t trust  _ me _ , after all this time.” She stood and brushed off her slacks, walked past him. “Well, if that’s the case --”

“Merribit --”

“-- then no need to worry, I’ll no longer be your go-between while she’s aboard. Later we can see if my entire position here needs to be reevaluated.” She left the infirmary in a hurry, and it took only a few steps down the hall for her to nearly run into Nadi. She didn’t break stride. “Save me from stubborn teenagers,” she grumbled. Nadi followed her, to her relief.


	6. Home

**Chapter 6: Home**

The chime sounded.

“Come in,” McGillis called to the door. He set down his tea, relieved for an excuse to let it grow cold and eventually be tossed out -- it wasn’t as good as Almiria’s. 

The aide approached through the evening shadows to McGillis’ desk, performed a curt salute. “Sir, the Isaribi has re-entered Earth space.” He waited with hands behind his back.

McGillis tapped a gloved hand on the desk, thinking. Or rather, reviewing previously-concocted courses of action.  _ They have the pilot, then. No doubt she’s the driving force behind the return to Earth, and I doubt it’s for nostalgia. It’s interesting that she managed to convince Orga, and he’s yet to contact me. While I can guess her motives, his will take a little more time to reveal. _ He looked up at the aide, “Track them discreetly, but do not engage. I’ll expect hourly reports.”

“Sir,” the aide acknowledged, saluted again, and left.

_ I’ll give them a little time to conjure something interesting for me, _ he thought.

* * *

 

Orga looked over his shoulder as Artima entered the bridge for the descent. Normally he would have advised being buckled-in for re-entry but -- as he’d been doing ever since their argument -- he had been mulling over Merribit’s words and the idea of Artima having more experience than he’d initially given her credit for hung over him. She folded her arms and looked ahead, and did not announce herself.

He too looked back at the view, “This is the Eastern Pacific Entry, so it’ll take us about an hour to reach the coast of Japan.”

“They even control how you go home, huh?” Artima commented.

“This isn’t home,” Orga said.

“Even if you wanted it to be they wouldn’t let you have it.” She sighed. “It’s home for all of us. Originally. We all came from here. It’s like taking your ancestral ground and then charging you an entry fee.”

He wondered where this line of thinking came from or was going. Unless it really was just her way of making smalltalk? She hadn’t seemed like the sort. “Where were you born?” he asked, though he was faintly sure he’d read it somewhere.

“On a space transport, between here and a colony,” she said. “I’m guessing you were born on Mars.”

He hummed an agreement because it was easier. In his periphery Eugene turned his head to give him a look for him to ignore. 

“Where’re we going again?” Eugene asked instead and flicked a couple of switches.

Orga tilted his head and looked at Artima; she glanced at him briefly and stifled her exasperation. “My old mission partner was born in Japan and trained there before we were matched up. Her dojo was her home, her master her father. If she took my Gundam and hid it, that dojo will probably be the place.”

“How can you hide a mobile suit in a dojo?” Akihiro asked. “Little big, isn’t it?”

Artima hooked a hand on a rail as they dipped and turned slightly in the descent. “Toki was also a Gundam frame developer as well as a dojo master -- he designed the Komori of course, but had a hand in the Khort Mogoi’s design, too. You’ll need a decent workspace if you’re going to build Gundams, and he wasn’t one for much work/life separation.”

“So there’s a hangar under the dojo?” Akihiro surmised. 

“I believe so.”

“You ‘believe so’? You’re not sure?” Orga said.

She shrugged. “Wasn’t my dojo, and Taki and I never talked about it. We spent most of our time on the surface.”

“Wait -- Toki, the developer?”

“No -- Taki, my mission partner. Yes the names are similar and no I don’t know why.”

Orga quirked his eyebrows and turned back to the amber-colored sunrise that made the ocean into fire. He hoped he was making the right decision.

* * *

 

Around an hour later they touched down in a water port in the Tsuruga Bay, which Artima had directed them to and had been surprised to find still operational. What had once been a busy city owing to its boon of nuclear plants some centuries prior had degenerated when Gjallarhorn created the economic blocs and sought to assimilate all forms of power plants into different locations; the Tsuruga that was left was little more than an industrial husk that had attempted to use tourism as a crutch -- ironically once the plants had been closed, the natural beauty of the area had sprung back and become a hidden gem for the planet as a whole. While green was still a welcome sight for him and the boys, Orga expected any travel outside of the city to be more complicated than Artima seemed to believe.

Nevertheless they disembarked, and as a sort of apology to her for their earlier argument Orga let Merribit organize ‘break shifts’ for the crew so they could get some fresh air -- such as it was, with the oppressive humidity and heat for so early in the morning. He felt oddly put-out when she and Artima disappeared for an hour into the city to ‘pick up some things’, Eugene accompanying them, but used the time to figure out the best route for them to take to the dojo, which was apparently about two hours’ east deep in the mountains. Owing to what little he remembered of the country’s mobile suit history and the numerous test flights and accidents that had occurred, he wondered if the dojo remained intact. According to Chad, many temples, shrines, and other remote settlements and landmarks had suffered in the wake of the lack of interest in cultural sanctity in recent years and it seemed too much to hope that this particular building was be exempt.

“So you really think the Khort Mogoi will be here?”

Mikazuki’s voice broke Orga away from his thoughts. He took his foot off the pier post and stretched, turning to look at the mountains rising behind Tsuruga. “I honestly don’t know. No one has any way of knowing if Pilot 06 was successful in getting it away from the enemy. It could be at the bottom of the sea for all we know. But what choice do we have?”

But there was a choice. And by the way he felt Mikazuki’s eyes on him he knew he wasn’t able to keep the gnawing thought of it that much of a secret. He glanced at the shorter boy sitting with his legs dangling over the water and confirmed the gaze. Considering his request back in the hangar that Artima stay with them, Orga wondered if Mikazuki would judge him poorly if he went back on his word.

“We’re back,” came Merribit’s voice. 

Orga turned to the three of them slipping out of the small stream of pedestrians onto this leg of the pier; Merribit had a cluster of bags in one hand and her blazer draped over her free arm, while Eugene toted a larger sack -- probably grain of some kind -- on one shoulder and a handled crate with the other hand. The blond was lingering back a couple of paces and was smirking and intently staring at Artima’s backside, making Orga roll his eyes. He noticed that Artima had cut off a lot of her hair and found new clothes -- presumably the old ones were in one of the two bags she held -- but paid it little attention other than to wonder about the practicality of black and long sleeves in this heat.

“Anything good?” he asked.

“We missed Kudelia’s birthday last week so I wanted to pick something up for her,” Merribit said. “Not to mention a few supplies that we couldn’t find last time.”

“Thank you for the clothes. It felt strange borrowing,” Artima said.

“Couldn’t be helped,” Merribit shrugged happily and took one of the bags from her. She looked at Akihiro and said, “You can have your shirt back now,” which elicited a small flush across his cheeks.

“We should probably get going,” Orga said. “Did you manage to find a way out there?” He didn’t like the idea of having to hike, but a mobile suit of any kind was too conspicuous -- they’d even left their jackets back on the ship. 

“We found a driver to take four of us,” Artima agreed. She was kneeling to stuff some small items -- including a handgun, he noticed -- into a bag that she then looped and belted around her hips and left thigh.

“Good. Eugene, stay with the ship for now,” Orga said and ignored the groan of protest. “Akihiro, Mika, with me.”

Artima was already turning and walking away, revealing an almost completely bare back. He wondered if the impression of vulnerability this gave off was deliberate, like she wanted to be stabbed in the back. It took him a moment to swallow this idea, push away his prior thoughts, and follow.

* * *

 

The driver was a sullen-looking man in his mid-thirties that smelt of too much beer, but there wasn’t any opportunity for Orga to ask Artima if there hadn’t been anyone more savory available. He spoke more to his compact all-terrain vehicle than to his passengers as it sputtered and coughed when it shifted gears through the hills and the zigzagging gravel roads. The four of them -- Orga and Artima behind the driver, Akihiro and Mikazuki behind them facing the opposite direction -- were white-knuckled as every turn that was taken too quickly and threatened to pitch them out of the open sides.

By the time two hours had passed, the four of them looked visibly ill despite their experiences in spaceflight. Orga wasn’t about to admit it but was relieved when the land began to flatten, and Artima seemed to realize where they were and tapped the driver on the shoulder. They heaved to a stop under the dappled shade of the trees and shakily hopped down. Artima was immediately climbing up a bank and peering beyond it. Insects of some kind were trilling so loudly Orga could barely hear himself think -- what were they, anyway?

“Dunno why you’d want to come out here,” the driver was drawling. “There’s other places. You war historians or summat? What you want with that wreck?” 

Artima came down the bank again, fishing in her bag. 

The driver huffed to himself and pulled a canteen from under his seat, unscrewed the cap. “How you even know it’s out here?”

Orga turned to spit in the grass.

_ Click-click -- pop!  _

Orga’s head jerked back in the direction of the driver. Blood spurted from the back of his head and he stumbled a couple of steps to one side and into the hood of the ATV, then fell to the ground. A bird took flight from the bushes. The insects fell quiet for a moment, then started up again.

“What the shit!” Akihiro shouted.

Orga looked at Artima as she lowered her gun, clicked the safety back on, and slipped it back into the bag on her hip. Expressionless, she turned away and began to climb the bank again. “Too many questions. Later he may have talked to the wrong people. We won’t be seen again and neither will he, so the townspeople will take it as an accident. What does it matter.”

_ That’s why she picked a drunkard, _ Orga realized.  _ Less likely to be missed. _

“Orga,” Akihiro said lowly. He and Mikazuki were looking at him.

Orga bit his lip, looked at the driver’s arm visible to him just past the front tire, the canteen spilling onion-colored liquor into the weeds. “We’ll radio when we’re done here. Can’t be helped now.” He calmed his shock and followed Artima. The queasiness in his stomach from the ride remained and he wished for a drink himself.

The top of the bank turned out to be the top of a small cliff face; below them in an overgrown dip in the land were the ruins of what was once a large dojo complex, complete with landscaped grounds and a small lake. Two-thirds of the main building’s roof had caved in and nature was attempting to reclaim the two courtyards as well as the training ground on the nearest side. A white stone wall serving as the perimeter was barely visible, and the road leading from the collapsed main gate was pockmarked from what he could only assume was mobile suit fire. If there was a hangar of sorts under the complex, there was no sign. 

Orga looked at Artima. “This it?”

She hesitated for some reason. “Yeah.” She walked along the ridge a little and began to descend. When they caught up with her Orga realized there was a staircase cut into the cliff, barely wide enough for two feet. He hung on to the heavy chain nailed into the rock. 

At the bottom, they had to fight through thorny bushes to get to the gate. Artima swept out an arm to halt them -- a long black snake lay coiled in their path, as though it’d been waiting for them. Its wedge-shaped head made it look angry and its eyes were the color of the sunrise this morning.

“A pitviper,” Artima muttered and its tongue flickered at her in response. “Odd that it’s on the ground.” Her arm slowly lowered. “Go around. Slowly.”

They did as instructed, but Artima lingered. When they were a few paces past it, Orga looked over his shoulder. She and the viper continued to stare at one another until finally they both moved at the same time, slinking away in opposite directions. She caught up and he said, “You’ll kill a man without batting an eye as a precaution, but not a viper.”

“I’ve never been bitten by a viper.”

They wandered into the wreckage. Judging by the lack of furnishings or supplies, the dojo had been abandoned for some time. With his limited knowledge, Orga guessed that the place had maybe a couple hundred years’ worth of decay on it. He wasn’t sure what they were looking for.

“How long has it been since --” Orga glanced back, expecting to see Artima but instead finding dead space. 

Akihiro stuck his head around a doorframe. “You say something?”

“Where’d she go?”

“Outside,” Mikazuki said as he came into view, too.

A little searching and they found her perched on a post that must have held up a pier over the lake once. She was far out -- she must have hopped from post to post -- and staring over the softened landscaping, the frame of waterlilies around the still surface of the emerald water. A heron took flight from the edge and was chased by its reflection. Orga came to stand on the nearest bank and squinted, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. He still couldn’t make out her expression.

“Anything come to mind?” Akihiro called. 

Her head turned ever so slightly but she didn’t respond. Instead she unbuckled her bag and held it by the belt in her teeth while she hooked her thumbs into her waistband and stepped gracefully out of her leggings one foot at a time. He was grateful to realize that the top she wore was actually a leotard of a kind. She stuffed the leggings most of the way into the bag. “Here,” she said and threw the bag at Akihiro, who caught it. Without another word, she dove into the water.


	7. Duality

**Chapter 7: Duality**

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Orga muttered.

“Do we go after her?” Akihiro asked, barely keeping his own exasperation in check. He tossed the bag on a tuft of grass.

“She has to come up for air eventually,” Mikazuki shrugged.

They waited dumbly on the bank, not speaking. Orga’s mouth was dry and sweat was beading on his forehead, creeping down his neck. He clenched his fists. What felt like minutes went by even though logically he knew it could only have been one or two. He mumbled another curse and was about to step forward through the irises when Artima surfaced -- a delicate rising of her head above the water, her hair slick over her ears, and wiping water from her face with both hands. 

She took a moment to find them. “I found something,” she called, and waited without elaboration.

The three of them looked at one another. Maybe it was the heat, but Orga was growing even more irritable. “I’ll go,” he grumbled and pulled off his boots, socks and shirt, leaving them on the grass. 

He forged his way through the papery tongues of the irises and leathery scales of the lilies and into the lake, which very quickly lost its bottom -- the lukewarmness of the upper water grew cooler around his ankles. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in such a large body of water and tried not to be squeamish about it. As though she could read his mind Artima reached out a hand to him; he would have made a snide comment if her arm hadn’t been just below the surface and thus out of view to the other two. Her dark gaze through her wet eyelashes was, however, unpitying. It seemed odd to refuse so he took the offered hand and, following her example, took a deep breath and dipped under the water.

At first Orga didn’t want to open his eyes and was grateful he had her strong grip to guide him. The weight of the water was so different to the gravity of entering an atmosphere, swimming through it so different to floating through air. It took him several long moments to force open his eyes and wrangle his limbs into the appropriate movement, and he was surprised when Artima swept in front, her back to him. Through the rush of the bubbles and the murk he saw her tap her shoulders. Understanding, he took hold of them, and begrudgingly let her do the swimming while he more or less floated parallel to her.

She led them down at a slant toward what he guessed was the bank where Mikazuki and Akihiro stood. It was impossible for him to see anything and Orga began to wonder how exactly she’d managed to. Once that thought was in his mind, however, it was equally impossible for him to let go of it.

_ What if there’s nothing down here? _ he wondered. 

Seven feet, eight feet, toward the darkness somehow deeper than space. All he could see was the arrow of white skin between his hands and the way it creased and smoothed as she swam.

Nine feet.

_ What if there’s nothing down here? Why is it so dark? _

Ten. Eleven.

He began to panic. His lungs were burning. _ There’s nothing down here. It’s a trick -- she brought me down here to die.  _ He let go of her. A burst of air escaped from his mouth and nose.  _ There’s nothing down here! _

Artima turned to face him, frowning, shorn hair waving like a veil caught in a slow wind in front of her face. Unlike her composure he began to flounder, fight against the weight of the water and reach for what little light made it down here. More air escaped from him; his lungs squeezed harder. Water crept in his mouth. She watched him -- Death was watching him. The panic intensified in a way he never thought it would when he was faced with death. He reached for her instead, mortality channeling itself into a rush of adrenaline-fueled anger.

_ I refuse!  _

But the water fought its way in. He spluttered. Spots began to dance in his vision, like the darkness was getting inside him along with the water. More came. More. However much he reached he couldn’t seem to touch her.

He thought of Mikazuki, of Biscuit, of Tekkadan and the unveiling of its sigil on the Isaribi, its first flight -- the first time he and his ambitions had felt weightless and thereby more in reach than ever before. What was all of that, now? Is that why fate had sent this woman? To show him how all of it was futile, how both a past and a future could be wrung from him as easily as air?

_ There’s nothing down here… _ His hand stopped reaching -- he began to black out. 

Death reached for him, too. He felt it take his hand and pull. 

* * *

 

Orga awoke with a great heaving cough that kept going. He vomited lakewater onto dusty concrete and his entire body shuddered in response. He was cold, and only by virtue of that did he feel the warm hand on his back. He jerked his head around to see Artima and fought through the dizziness that resulted -- her face, as always it seemed, was blank and this made him remember how she had stared at him as eh drowned. He lunged at her, hands locking around her throat, and knocked her on her back. He fought down another coughing fit and focused on squeezing as hard as he could -- he’d wring the air from her like the water had done to him, he’d --

Her legs came up toward their chins, her left sweeping above his head. They pincered his neck and forced him back and down, loosening his grip enough for her to remove the rest with her hands. She pushed him off her onto his back and pinned his wrists to his chest, but did not otherwise move. Winded, he coughed more water onto himself and her bare, mud-streaked legs. 

“Not a strong swimmer, are you?” Artima said. She shifted her weight and removed her legs and hands, crouching next to him in the way she must have been before. He sat up and her hand shot out to slow him. His head span again and he felt like he had the nosebleed of a lifetime. He coughed again and spat onto the ground, tried to clear his sinuses. Then he sat there for a good while, steadying his breathing and the rattling in his chest. He glanced around him. They were in some kind of underground chamber -- certainly not large enough to hold a Gundam, he noted with disappointment -- lit intermittently with hanging electric lights. It smelled of rot and mildew.

He looked at her askance. “You were going to let me drown.”

She, however, didn’t look at him. “I didn’t.”

“But you hesitated.”

“You’re right.” She looked at a tear in the sheer fabric of her sleeve, blinked slowly. “You and Mikazuki...you’d die for one another, right?”

Orga’s brow furrowed. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Taki and I were like that,” she said. “Watching you...it was like watching her die at someone else’s hand.” She paused. “I never saw it happen and I realized that was a small blessing, and that this would be poor repayment. Besides, you’re just kids. That’s not what I’ve been brought back to do.” She looked at him at last. “I’m so used to killing -- to not valuing human life, including my own. Taki tried to show me differently, like maybe she managed to do with Duo. Heero tried -- no, ensured -- I would live despite myself.”

Orga frowned more deeply. “Despite yourself?”

Artima took a deep breath. “Around your age I was diagnosed with something called Ryker’s Disease, given maybe fifteen years tops to live. One of Heero’s hopes was that my stasis would keep me alive until there was a cure, or see me through it on its own. I’ve not felt any of my usual symptoms, so I guess it worked. It’s hard to get out of a mental rut, though -- I see it now, that knowing I was going to die anyway either in my suit or from Ryker’s made me reckless.” She folded her legs the other way. “It’s strange to have a future stretching out ahead of you -- my own and, out there in the water, yours. So I hesitated.”

He knew how that felt. Until recent years he had thought his life had a much nearer expiration date. Now he had his own future stretching out ahead of him, had the futures of his crew in his hands. Artima’s future had been in his hands too. Still was. “It doesn’t change that you were going to let me die,” he said to her but also to himself. He didn’t much like the similarity between them.

“No, it doesn’t,” she agreed, and her tone and the way she held his gaze suggested both that she was being genuine but also that she somehow intuited his deeper thoughts of giving her back to Gjallarhorn. 

The silence was loud. Artima stood and after a moment, Orga hauled himself to his feet too. He supposed there was little else to do than continue forward for the time being. He cleared his throat. “Where are we?”

“Under the dojo.” She turned on a bare heel and pointed to a six-foot-high metal ledge behind them. There was a gap of maybe two or three feet between the ledge and the ceiling. “Acts like a dam. The lake water is a couple of feet lower. I’m not sure but this could have been for emergency cooling purposes, judging by the engines,” she nodded to the far wall at large, rusted turbines and their housing. 

Orga traced pipes along the wall between the pumps and the ledge, locating hinges. His eyes found a trail of mud in the dust leading from the wall to where they stood -- where she’d dragged him. He chose not to focus on it, instead looking above them and commenting, “I’m surprised there’s power.”

“Motion-sensing. Anyway, let’s go.”

They walked toward the wall opposite the ledge, where the mouths of narrower pipes lined the bottom in fours, and climbed a ladder out of the pit of the antechamber. This put them at the end of a short tunnel accessed by an unlocked hatch. As they moved lights came on over them, and went out behind them.

“Next time, don’t take in so much air,” she said.

“Hm?”

“Too much makes you strain.”

Orga wasn’t sure how to respond. Their footsteps were loud in the claustrophobic yet empty space and he still didn’t feel quite himself. He was ready to be back on the surface -- back in space. Or was it, he reflected, that he was just ready to be away from her? Part of him wished he had never listened to Merribit back on Vingolf in the first place, and he wasn’t normally one for regrets.  

As they approached a second hatch, without thinking he asked, “If you could change one decision you made, what would it be?”

She hesitated with her hand on the wheel lock. “Why do you want to know?”

He didn’t know. “Just making conversation.”

Artima didn’t answer. She opened the hatch and they stepped onto the gridding of a gallery, similar to that in the maintenance hangar of the Isaribi. The air was stale, but cool and comparably drier. Yet they were faced with yet another immense blackness beyond the rail that the light from the tunnel couldn’t quite touch. Orga came to stand beside her and they stared at it for a moment without speaking. He could hear her breathing -- rapid, and then slower, slower, until he thought she would stop altogether and without it, he’d be lost in this new abyss.

“The problem is not to decide at all,” she said quietly, more to the space than to him. “Regret what you don’t decide. But isn’t that human nature -- sometimes, to prefer not to decide at all because it’s safer than reaching for what you want.”

Orga thought back to reaching for her in the water, to her reaching for him right at the last moment when he thought it was better after all to let go. How unlike him that’d been. He looked at her as she continued:

“Like now -- in this darkness, Kheree is both here and not here. When we turn on the light, it will be certain either way. History records me as dead, but I am alive -- by the time you and I are done, the record will be set straight either way.” The confusion must have shown on his face because she smiled wryly to herself, “I mean that the answer to your question is that I don’t regret my decisions. It’s pointless. I regret those times that I did not move. Few, but significant.” She paused, then shrugged, “Then again, I’ve always been a bit of a duality like that -- life and death, movement and stillness, choice and abstinence.” She was moving away,  “Or maybe Taki and I were the duality and now I don’t know what to do with myself.” She chuckled, “More likely.”

Orga mulled this strangely philosophical answer over. It wasn’t that it didn’t make sense -- and a large part of him didn’t want it to make sense because that would bring him back to their similarity -- it was why she was choosing to tell him. She’d never been as verbose as she was now.

She seemed to have found a light source, and began flicking on switches with loud  _ clunks _ . One row, above them, illuminated. “Do you know what ‘Kheree’ means?”

“No.”

_ Clunk _ . Another row, just past this edge of the gallery.

“It’s Mongolian for ‘raven’.” She was smiling.

_ Clunk _ . Another row.

“While ‘Khort Mogoi’ means ‘viper’. My Gundam is both prey and predator. The more you embody, the less they can hurt you.” 

_ Clunk _ . Another row.

“I too was ‘Kheree’ for a time, yet I was the one to use the Viper Construct. I am both predator and prey. We are two sides -- and both sides -- of the same coin.” Artima was grinning, now. “That’s how I knew she would be here. Because I am still here.” She pushed up the last switch; the last row blinked on.

Orga turned to the huge hangar now ablaze with light. On its back on a steel bed at the far end was a somewhat small and light-looking mobile suit -- black, tinged with violet like the viper at the gate or, indeed, a raven’s wings. Artima returned to his side, smiling. She had tears in her eyes.


	8. Kheree

**Chapter 8: Kheree**

 

It’d taken Artima and Orga about forty-five minutes to get back to the surface via a dilapidated, narrow staircase that ended under the floor of one of the dojo’s smaller, caved-in rooms, and the rest of that hour to explain what had happened to Akihiro and Mikazuki and argue with the former. They’d then radioed the Isaribi. Although it was a risk to have the ship attempt to land in the immediate area for a couple of reasons, it was ultimately simpler than trying to dispatch a field crew. Not to mention it allowed for the far easier loading of the Khort Mogoi -- and a quick escape for everyone if needed.

Orga had decided to assign another pair of his crewmen -- Shino and Yagami -- to Artima to take on understanding how the Gundam worked, rather than himself. Artima figured after the near-drowning incident he wanted some distance between them. Fine by her.

“All right, we’re in!” Shino clapped the younger boy on the back as Kheree’s cockpit door clanked unlocked. He helped Artima pry it open; even with the team’s dutiful cleaning, the oil on the hinges was practically glue by this point where it hadn’t decayed.

The maw of Kheree’s empty chest greeted them, the hangar’s light dispelling the ancient dark. Artima hesitated on the edge, shaking a little. “Can I -- can I have a moment?” she asked, not caring how ridiculous it sounded.

“Huh? Oh, sure, I guess?” Shino said, in what she supposed was the most delicate of empathy she was going to get from him. 

“Thanks.” 

She carefully climbed in. Though she wasn’t hooked up to her and hadn’t been for what felt like millennia, Artima swore she could feel Kheree relax and greet her, like she was the heart returning to that chest. She also swore she could smell her blood from the last time she’d been in here -- or maybe it was Taki’s -- and she looked around for it, reacquainting herself with the space that had both ruined and defined her life. 

Unlike traditional designs, Kheree did not have a chair in its cockpit, but was still barely big enough for two people; it was more of an egg or chrysalis than a throne. Artima knelt inside the smooth, cool shell, trailing a hand over the half-rotted-away harness system lying limp against the concave floor and walls -- the shreds of her cradle. She glanced behind her to see that the panel for concealing the comparatively crude manual controls was still open from when Taki must have brought her here. The compartment next to it, where she’d kept spare clothes, medicine, and her gun, was ajar still too. Artima’s head bowed and she breathed deeply in a few times, beating back memories. Her skin was tingling and Kheree wasn’t even powered up yet -- she could feel the ghost of the electricity whispering to her.  

When she opened her eyes they were immediately on perhaps the most crucial part -- her helmet. Although, of course, it didn’t look like a helmet right now. Opposite her was a bound stalk of several wires ending in a fist-sized ring and a dull but thick needle. She stared at it, compulsively rubbed the back of her head at the nape. 

_ It’ll be over soon, _ she thought. 

The original intention was to destroy Kheree here and now but, having seen her for the first time in forever, all those twisted bittersweet feelings were surging and changing her mind. She’d reassured herself that she could destroy her anytime she wanted, and that they couldn’t be sure what kind of a time they’d have finding Komori and thus she might need to be armed with Kheree in the meanwhile -- or that if she needed to bid Tekkadan a hasty farewell, Kheree would need to be her means of escape. 

But...awful as being in this cockpit had been, she had never been powerless. Not like she was now. And if Kheree was all she had left...

Shino seemed to have decided her moment was over. “So how does this Gundam work?” His shadow was falling over her as he leaned in. Yamagi hissed at him. “Doesn’t look like any cockpit I’ve ever seen. Where are your controls?”

Artima tilted her head back to look up at him and tapped her temple, smiling at his confusion. To explain, she swallowed her apprehension and reached forward, tugging up the hank of wires to show him the needle. “This goes in my brainstem.” She tapped the ring, “This becomes a helmet. Those and my suit mean I basically become Kheree, and she becomes me. Instead of a chair I’m hung in a harness.”

“You mean you have to stick that in your head every time?” Shino balked.

She shrugged. “It  _ is _ the Alaya-Vijnana System predecessor, so there’s not much difference. Just takes me longer than any of you to get in and out. And you get used to it.”

“How does your pilot suit help?” Yamagi asked.

Artima let go of the wires and climbed out into the light to sit on the cockpit’s lip. “I don’t suppose either of you have heard of acupuncture?”

They gave each other curious looks. 

“My suit has hundreds of thin, short, retractable needles embedded in it; they translate my body’s movements and connect my nervous system to Kheree, and her to me.” She didn’t seem to have alleviated their confusion, so she struggled for an example. “Let’s say… imagine I detect an attack coming for my right arm. I can signal Kheree’s armor to harden in anticipation, move it, or whatever else I need to do, as easily as moving my own arm. It’s...very immersive. I feel what she feels, and she is only as good as I am.”

“Mikazuki is like that sometimes,” Yamagi said thoughtfully to himself. “Like he loses a bit of himself.”

Artima was taken aback. She hadn’t wanted to bring up the times she’d been immersed too long, how difficult it was sometimes to tell her and Kheree apart. How disorienting and dangerous it could be. That this kid could intuit that surprised her.

“What about the weapons?” Shino was asking, thankfully. “Armor? Looks a bit thin. No headpiece either like on Barbatos.”

The three of them stood. Artima began to lead them over Kheree’s violet-sheened black body. “She’s designed for medium- to close-range combat, with an emphasis on mobility and versatility – meant to be fast and deadly but not very strong. My partner made up for what I lacked.” 

She pointed here and there at the amber-colored accents, at the bladed gauntlets on its hands and feet, the snakehead-like husker for draining other suits’ power docked on the left arm, the hilt of the double beam scimitar peeking over the shoulder. She explained about the armor being made of EM7, a tactical compliment to gundanium, and ‘scaling’ -- the process wherein it could harden into scales or become more malleable through delicate heat control. They listened appreciatively and attentively, for their part, and she had to admit liking showing off something she knew as well as her own body. Though she’d already gone over Kheree several times to check her condition, it made her happy to be reminded of how lucky she was that she was in such good shape.

_ Thank you, Taki. _

They turned as Eugene and Nadi called back and forth to each other -- Nadi at the controls to the giant transportation bed on which Kheree lay, and Eugene at the controls to the large doors that blocked off the shaft to the outside. 

“Huh, they figured it out I guess,” said Shino. He stood up from examining the viper head of the husker. “Where does that tunnel end?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest,” Artima said. There was a loud, broken squawk of an alarm as the doors parted in the middle and began to grate open.

Nadi climbed up to join them. He was smiling. “Looks like we got real lucky. The taxi system’s operational and Eugene’s working on the doors at the other end. The Isaribi can meet her at the other side of the launch chute -- we’ll only give the system enough power to take her slowly out.”

“‘Other side’ where?” Shino repeated at the older man.

“Shallow incline for about a mile; comes out deeper in the mountains. Hopefully there’s not too much debris.” He folded his arms, looked around their feet up and down Kheree’s fourteen-meter length. “This really isn’t like any frame I’ve seen before. It’s small, for one, and two smaller boosters to support the main reactor was an interesting choice. They don’t look large enough for sustained activity, though? Particularly if temperature-controlled armor and camouflage are its other assets.”

Artima nodded, tapped the husker with her feet. “That’s what this is for.”

Nadi looked, too, and made an interested noise. 

“You can’t have made atmospheric entries and exits by yourself,” Yamagi chimed in. “It’s too fragile. Even our frames have trouble.”

“She was always accompanied,” Artima said. “Actually she was meant to be housed in space for that reason. But...things changed, as they do.”

After a moment’s pause Nadi suggested, “We can power her up, if you like. While we’re here -- make use of this facility -- there’s just enough power to get her going until we can assess and find a better supply on Jupiter. Probably best to do it so we can detect any internal malfunctioning now rather than later.”

Artima subdued the surge of excitement, but not the broad smile. “Sure, but better ask your boss first. I’ve stepped on his toes too much today.”

Nadi recognized the excitement nonetheless, it seemed. He smirked at her. “Be right back, then.”

Due to the possibility of the reactor being detected by Gjallarhorn, all non-essential personnel reboarded and the Isaribi was moved first, leaving Artima, Shino, and Nadi. Only once they had received the go-ahead from the other end of the launch tunnel that all was open, clear and ready did they turn their attention to the Gundam.

Artima stood on the taxi bed by Kheree’s head, resting a hand on what constituted the frame’s scarred cheek underneath the eye. 

“Ready!” Shino called to Nadi from his place beside Kheree’s reactor, which was hooked up somewhat haphazardly to a power unit on the far wall.

Nadi acknowledged him and punched a couple of buttons on the power unit, then began slowly raising a lever. Below her, Artima heard Shino do the same with a second lever. There was a crackle that echoed around the hangar. She hoped this ‘jumpstart’ would be enough, and focused on Kheree’s eye, willing it to glow.

“No good!” Shino called. “Try again!”

They repeated the process. This time, Artima felt the steel underfoot begin to vibrate and a whirring noise come from Kheree’s reactor behind her head. A small amount of heat began to radiate from the armor, then subsided into neutral standby. Something danced in the eye, and then erupted into a blaze of amber.

Artima smiled at it, enjoying the three minutes’ burning until, satisfied with the quick diagnostics they ran, Shino and Nadi powered her down again. The eye dimmed and went out, taking Artima’s smile with it.

“All right, that’s enough to get the reactor stirring again. Let’s move out,” Nadi called as he came back in their direction and the controls of the taxi system.

Shino began to unhook Kheree. “How’d she look?”

“Strangely fine,” Nadi said.

“Well that’s a relief,” Shino said to Artima. He dragged the cabling away off the tracks.

Nadi activated the taxi system, and after Shino pulled the brake blocks out of the way the bed began to move forward toward the tunnel. First Nadi then Shino hopped on the bed with Artima and hung on to Kheree as they accelerated to roughly ten miles an hour. The brightness of the hangar disappeared behind them as they plunged into the darkness of the tunnel. Soon enough it began to slowly incline. 

“Shame you won’t be able to pilot until we get your suit back,” Shino said across Kheree’s neck. “I bet this thing’s awesome in action.”

“Mm well we don’t know if that’s possible yet, remember,” Nadi tempered. “Getting the suit, I mean. Up to Orga.”

“He’ll come round to the idea!” Shino said.

“Still have to find the Komori, too, before Ms Wei here’ll do anything like that anyway,” Nadi reminded him. “Don’t get any ideas, Shino.”

* * *

Orga slipped his tablet into his pocket as he came out of the grove. Mikazuki was waiting for him at the treeline and beyond him, the faint outline and flickering lights of the Isaribi several meters away, the gangway to the mobile suit hangar open and spilling light into the meadow. It was a clear night overhead, and Orga felt his head clearing too.

“Is Eugene at the helm?” Orga asked.

“He’s at the launch exit,” Mikazuki said. As Orga passed him the dreaded but inevitable question came: “What were you doing?” Before he could lie, it was followed by a second. “Who were you talking to?”

“Nothing you need to worry about, Mika,” he said.

Orga got a few more steps away out of the undergrowth before his friend spoke again. “She’ll be mad.”

Orga paused but did not turn around. He flipped his collar up to the night chill and the biting insects. “Who?”

“Ms Merribit.”

“We can’t conduct business based on what Ms Merribit likes or doesn’t like.”

“No,” Mikazuki agreed. There was a slight pause, then he added, “And Eugene likes her. I mean, a lot of the crew won’t be happy, but especially those two.”

He wasn’t about to deny it. Turning, he asked, “And you?”

“I trust your judgment. You know that.” Mikazuki came away from the tree he was leaning on, popped another Martian plum into his mouth. “Did you tell Naze?” he asked around the mouthful.

“No,” Orga admitted.

“That means you’re not 100% sure. That’s not like you.”

Orga looked around the shadowy grass at their feet, and then up at the stars. He was ready to be back among them -- that much was certain. “Well, it’s too late now.” A black bird flew overhead and he felt a chill run down his spine.


	9. Swayed

**Chapter 9: Swayed**

 

“Sir, we detected a brief reactor activation due northeast. It seems to be as you predicted -- it’s not an Ahab.”

McGillis turned from his view of ships coming back to port in the night. “How long would it take us to rendezvous?”

The brown-haired, tall aide placed his hands behind his back. “Tsuruga is about half an hour from us, and the activation was detected maybe another half an hour out, if we go by mobile suit. I do not recommend other methods of transportation, Sir -- the countryside is misleadingly pleasant-looking but it’s easy for ground transportation to end up in a bind, particularly in the dark.”

“I’m surprised by your local knowledge. What did you say your name was?”

“Isurugi Camice, Sir.”

“Seems I made a good choice in bringing you along.”

McGillis received a small nod as thanks and admired the lack of sentimentality. “Do you wish to depart now, Sir?”

“Oh no, they’ve still got a task to accomplish first. We’ll let them do one of our chores first. We’re down here to monitor, and it’ll be easier to make our move when we’re close by. The more space we give Ms Wei, the more likely she is to slip through our fingers again.”

McGillis walked back up the open hangar ramp into the small transport ship he and his personal team had arrived in earlier that evening. Inside, the still forms of their four suits stared down at him. Isurugi joined him at a respectful distance.

“Are we certain that Tekkadan will not go back on their word?” Isurugi asked him.

“No,” McGillis admitted. “Orga Itsuka is young, and Ms Wei has upset the apple cart. He may work well with the unexpected when it’s external, but he invited this one in and she’s likely going to cloud his judgment. If she endears herself to the crew, it will be clouded further. However, something seems to have happened to prompt him to contact me willingly, so perhaps not.”

“Could we not take her back by force, Sir?”

“I like to think of this as a test for them.” He glanced at Isurugi, who was carefully trying to keep more questions in check. He smiled, “Don’t worry. It will not take them long to reach what remains of the Komori.”

 

* * *

 

Having successfully brought the Khort Mogoi on board, the Isaribi returned to Tsuruga Bay to not draw any more attention to itself. Though the intention had been to rest up before the next leg of the journey -- to find the Komori -- the new Gundam frame had stirred up too much excitement among the younger crewmembers.

On the ground floor of the suit hangar -- where the Khort Mogoi had been secured due to the lack of a proper dock for her -- Eugene hung back and listened to Artima regale the younger boys with stories according to each scar they spotted on the Gundam’s body. It’d taken her some time to warm up to the pestering, understandably, but this had gone on for an hour now and she wasn’t doing too badly. He found the stories interesting, too. She hadn’t served for long but boy was there a lot of shit jam-packed into the time she did. However, she looked like she was starting to lose steam from all the talking. He took the opportunity.

“All right, guys, time to give it a rest for the night. Let Miss Wei get some sleep,” he said as he walked over, his hands in his pockets.

The boys whined but after some cajoling, obeyed. One of them even gave Artima a quick embarrassed hug -- after the other boys had retreated, of course. She watched them go, then stood, stretched testily first one way and then the other, frowning, a hand probing over her abdomen. Eugene decided not to ask.

“Thanks,” she said, hopping down from Kheree’s arm. She cleared her dry throat. “I was running out of the kid-friendly stories.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

She eyed him. A little knowingly, he’d say. “You were there for a while,” she observed. An eyebrow rose. “Still like storytime?”

He hadn’t realized she’d clocked him. Peripheries were a great thing, he supposed. She was probably trained for that kind of thing anyhow. He covered it up with a nonchalant, “I guess I do!” and reached up a hand to ruffle through the hair at the back of his head -- something Shino had pointed out to him recently that he only did when he was flustered, so he stopped as soon as he started. “Anyway, I thought you might be hungry?” he half-lied.

Her hand went to her stomach again, “Thanks, but not really. A drink, maybe.”

Another opportunity! Eugene pulled a hip flask out of his pocket before she could walk past him, waggled it, “You’re in luck.” He hoped he wasn’t pushing his own when he added, “How about some fresh air? Feels nice out.” As soon as he said it he thought,  _ You dumbass she’s had more fresh air today than you’ve had in the past month. _

Artima smirked to herself and rolled her eyes a bit, pausing, taking the hip flask from him and uncapping it. She sniffed it before sipping. Her dark gaze leveled at him, “All right,” she said, and he was under no impression that she was doing anything more than humoring him. She passed the flask back.

_ Have to start somewhere, though. _

They found their way up and outside without saying anything, and before long were sitting on one of the turrets of the main guns. The stars were still out. They passed the flask back and forth and Eugene congratulated himself on having thought to secretly fill it while they were out earlier that day. Every so often Artima would shift position and touch her abdomen, until she seemed to find the most comfortable position was leaning back on her elbows.

She caught him looking at her when she fished one-handed in her hip bag for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She tapped one out of the pack and snagged it in her mouth. “Letting you know now that if you try anything you’re gonna be sorry,” she said and offered him one, which he refused. She dropped the packet on her belly and sparked the lighter. It turned her face into a mask of amber. Cigarette lit, the lighter too plopped onto her ribcage. “Not to mention you’re, what, five years my junior and underage besides.”

“I wasn’t gonna try anything, for the record. I’m not  _ that _ dumb. I’m just here for the air,” Eugene said, though the last part was another half-lie.

Artima expelled the first cloud of smoke upward; it sailed over him in the slight breeze. “It’s good air.”

“Not that you’re getting the most out of it with that nasty habit,” he jibed.

She toyed with the filter end lightly with her thumb, “An old one. At this point it’s just something to do with my hands.”

Eugene narrowly avoided feeling titillated by the statement, and rapidly moved the conversation on with a, “I wanted to ask you -- you worked with a couple of the Operation Meteor pilots?” he checked.

“Yeah,” her voice was far away. “01 and 02 -- Heero Yuy, Duo Maxwell.” She seemed to come back to the present, eyed him with that knowing -- teasing -- look again, “Why? Fan? Sorry I can’t get you an autograph,” one corner of her mouth tugged up and the rest of the smile was hidden behind her hand as she took another drag.

“Kinda,” he chuckled lightly, resettled. “I know being part of Tekkadan has had plenty of its own firefights and it seems like we never stop, but it’s not quite the same, y’know? Or at least it doesn’t feel like it.”

“Like what?”

He looked toward the horizon. “Like a ‘proper mission’, I guess. An ‘Operation’. Not as noble, you could say -- at least Gjallarhorn in theory has that going for it. I mean, we did at first, but not lately. We’re a little more primitive. Anyway, what was it like?”

Artima hesitated, thoughtful. She huffed a short, single laugh. “Primitive, when you get down to it. Stupid. Wasteful. Not much different, from what I see.” She glanced quickly at him, decided to soften her statement, “Though, I wasn’t involved in Operation Meteor. The Five Pilots were Taki’s heroes back then, too. Things change when you meet your heroes -- for good and bad. You get all tangled up, see the heart of things. It’s easy to be swayed.” She looked at the rise and fall of her diaphragm, admitted quietly, “Taki was bad about that, in the end.”

Eugene watched her, trying to figure out if it was safe to keep probing. It was hard to tell with her. He decided to test it. “How so?”

“She cared too much about me, to start with.” Artima laid fully on her back, reached out over the side of the turret to flick ash off the cigarette. As it rose back to her mouth she said, “Then she got too close to Duo.” Inhale. “Love, maybe, though I don’t think any of us lived long enough to find out.” Exhale.

He tried to lighten things. “And let me guess, you were incorruptible by comparison!”

By the way she paused he knew the answer before she simply said, “No.” 

His brain chose the wrong to remind him that Orga had mentioned it was Heero Yuy that put her in that cryogen-bay. What he’d originally written-off as being a desperate measure by a fellow comrade suddenly had a different meaning. At least, that was what he assumed. He wasn’t sure he wanted confirmation but he was a bit of a masochist like that so he ventured, “So, you and Heero…”

Artima cut him a glare, bristled, looked at her half-gone cigarette. “It was complicated.”

His mouth charged ahead without him, “You loved him.”

“There was never going to be enough time for either of us to figure that out,” she said without hesitation, her voice weak.

Eugene sat up a little straighter, overwhelmed by the ridiculous feeling of being inferior to a dead man.  _ After all, what do I compare to somebody like  _ Heero Yuy _ , for crying out. Guy was a baller. A literal hero. Of course she -- _ he noticed then that she looked sad, confused. Cigarette ash fell on her shirt but she didn’t seem to notice, or care; her eyes were distant again, full of the reflection of the stars. He regretted having made this about satisfying his own curiosity. 

Eugene reached his hand toward Artima’s free one at her side because it seemed the thing to do, but before he could reach it she was lucid again, tutting to herself and sitting up, brushing the ash off. She took another drag, seemed to recognize it was her turn to up the mood. “What’s the legal drinking age nowadays, anyhow?” she gestured for the flask.

He gave it to her, let her change topic gladly. “Who knows. i’m sure most establishments have bigger fish to fry.”

“Probably.” She sipped; by the tinkling he could hear it was the last of it and she offered it back to him, but he let her have it. “Got this on shore? I haven’t tasted gin in forever. Surprised they still make it. Not my favorite, but.”

He took the empty flask back. “Is that what it is? I just grabbed what I saw and could afford.”

“Lord.” She stubbed out the cigarette, lit another. “Get something you actually like at least, for fuck’s sake.” The hand with the cigarette poked in his direction, “But don’t make it a habit. Ruin your liver and your eyes’ll get the color of your hair.”  

“You’re a fine one to be lecturing me about things that are bad for your health.”

“If neither three years of pestering from an absurdly health-and-fitness-conscious teammate or  three hundred and sixty-odd years of being cryogenically frozen haven’t rid me of the habit, I don’t think there’s much hope. Best I focus on prevention in others,” she said. She chuckled to herself while she attempted to put her cigarette pack and lighter back in her bag, as if she found something absurd. He hadn’t seen her laugh much. It made him like her more and he couldn’t help the lazy smile it stretched from his face, watching her.

“I’ll stop you smoking,” he said, bolstered by the warm tinglies from even such a small amount of liquor -- and who he was looking at. “Just you wait.”

She looked up at him, the amusement subsiding a little but her gaze not as cold as before. This time she really appeared to  _ look _ at him -- to  _ see _ him. After a moment she said, smiling, “You remind me of someone I knew.”

“Not Taki?”

“Not Taki.”

“Is that good?”

The warm smile became a smirk. She stood. “Come back when you’re older, kid,” she said, and hopped down from the turret to return inside the ship.

Eugene quirked his eyebrows, stretched all four limbs and laid on his back, grinning to himself.


	10. Complication

**Chapter 10: Complication**

 

Back in the safety of metal walls and dim corridors, fresher but still recycled air, the distraction of Artima’s time outside with Eugene siphoned away. The kid’s struggle not to flirt had been amusing but he wasn’t that good at hiding his infatuation; the fact that he reminded her of Kal -- Kal in his better days, at least, before she found out who he really was -- was an extra pang of nostalgia. She’d have to keep her distance. Nonetheless, it’d been nice to have a conversation that didn’t involve her strategic use, even if it’d dredged up an old pain, an old frustration.

 _“You loved him,”_ she remembered Eugene saying. _Heero. Had that been what it was?_

She paused in her walk back to her room as another cramp prodded her pelvis -- the same vague pain that’d been discomforting her the past three or four hours. Although a larger paranoia made her wonder if this was Ryker’s disease creeping back -- despite cramps not being its main forte -- the calmer, educated part of her cautioned that it was still too vague and slight to diagnose. It could be several things, at this point, all of which were a slew of minor things she’d have to get through before she should even contemplate the bigger things. She had a tickle in her throat, too, but chose to ignore it. She carried on walking.

_The gin, for one. Your digestive system is still adjusting. Also it seems reasonable that your menstrual cycle should be trying to figure itself out, too. Anxiety. You aren’t in perfect shape yet, period -- it’ll be a while until you can move like you did before. Just take it easy. Keep an eye on it._

When she rounded the corner she ran into Orga, about to knock on her door. Her mood soured further, and she did not greet him.

He straightened. “I came to tell you that we’ve received information on the possible whereabouts of the Komori.”

“From?” she inclined her head.

“Locals with no reason to lie. I don’t quite have your methods of dealing with innocent people briefly caught up in our affairs.”

Artima quirked her eyebrows and opened the door to her room, “Lack of caution will get you killed.” She sighed loudly. “Nothing to do about it now, I guess.” She moved past him.

“We’ll leave as soon as we find Eugene,” Orga added.

“Your stargazer should still be topside,” she said, and left the door open since he presumably had more information to tell her. When she didn’t hear his footsteps or voice she glanced over her shoulder -- he was giving her a suspicious look that he rapidly put away when she caught it. “Don’t worry, I haven’t gone a’murderin’.” She scoffed and headed for the water by her bed. “I would’ve thought you trusted me by now, especially after that ‘I decided not to kill you’ incident.”

“My life is one thing -- those of my crew are another.”

“As you’ve said.”

Orga paused, then continued, “The locals said at some point there was a crash in the bay -- a Gundam, black and red, similar to yours. They remember it because it destroyed most of the commercial fleet and damaged the coastline when it fell. Apparently it was salvaged in pieces and taken to China.”

Artima took a moment to contemplate not only the idea of the Komori hitting the water with Taki possibly inside -- the still-somehow-incomprehensible idea of Taki being dead -- but the image of Kheree’s sister being nothing more than pieces dredged up in nets like mere trash. Wreckage, almost unrecognizable, like the memories she’d seen in the sky half an hour ago. “You’ve verified this?” She poured herself a glass of water.

“We’ll verify it ourselves when we get there, with due caution.”

Artima suppressed the smile of recognition of what sounded like her own methods. She turned back around to look at him, drinking to soothe her crackly throat. Orga hovered in the doorway. She wasn’t totally sure she believed everything he said -- he wasn’t that good of a liar -- but couldn’t figure out which part of it she disbelieved. Much like the pain in her abdomen, it was still too vague to diagnose.

“Well, thanks for letting me know,” she said.

As if it released him from some hold, he said, “Topside, huh,” and closed the door behind him as he left.  


* * *

 

Orga did indeed find Eugene laying flat on his back on the aft gun turret. When he joined him and was close enough he could see that he was smiling. Suspicious.

“Time to go,” Orga said to get his attention.

“Yeah?” Eugene asked distractedly.

“Yeah.” When his second-in-command did not move, Orga figured it was better to go ahead and address the issue head-on. He put his hands in his pockets. “Out here with Ms Wei, huh?”

“That a problem?”

In truth, Orga hadn’t expected that reaction, and moistened his lips to take a moment to figure out how to approach this. “You should be careful, Eugene.”

“I’m a big boy.” Still he didn’t get up, or stop smiling.

Orga sighed. “Look, just -- don’t get close, all right? Like I told you before -- behave yourself. We can’t fully trust her.”

Eugene’s smile dropped, then. He pulled himself up into a sitting position. “Is that really what it is? About trust?” He frowned, spoke to the space in front of him, “A), you don’t seem to fully trust _me_ , and B),” he finally looked at Orga, “she’s not devious, Orga -- she’s sad. Heartbroken, even.”

“‘Heartbroken’,” Orga repeated skeptically, raising his eyebrows. This was bad.

Eugene shrugged at him, but did not divulge what they may have talked about -- interesting in of itself.  “Yeah. Wouldn't you be?”

Orga couldn't answer that, no matter how much he agreed. “I wish you could hear yourself.”

Eugene frowned harder, held open his arms, “Look what more do you want? Does she have to go through some kind of cup ceremony too in order for you to lay off? I think if she was going to screw us over she would’ve done it by now. Several times. Or --”

“And I think that not only is your infatuation getting in the way of your sense, but that she’s the type to _wait for the right moment_ ,” Orga countered through gritted teeth, but was ignored. Eugene was standing up, now. To have the height advantage, no doubt.

“-- _or_ , are you just jealous? Because sorry man, you had your chance. Should’ve said something.”

Orga scoffed. _That_ was the most ridiculous part of this entire conversation. “Being wrapped around Ms Wei’s little finger is the last thing I’d be jealous about.”

Eugene’s arms dropped. “Is that what I am?”

“Getting there,” Orga said quietly before he could stop himself.

“Fuck you,” Eugene spat.

Orga took a deep breath in, out. This wasn’t worth it. He waited for his blood to calm before he spoke. “You know what? Forget I said anything. I’m sorry I even brought it up.” He turned and walked away.

“Mikazuki said she could have let you drown, but she didn’t!” Eugene said.

“We’re leaving for the Republic of China,” Orga called back. “Either you’re in the cockpit, or I am, and you’re out here like a windsock. Ten minutes.” He re-entered the ship.

At first he wasn’t fully sure Eugene was going to follow, but he hadn’t got far when he heard him huffing and puffing behind him; then he was overtaking him, fists clenched and swinging at his sides as he headed for the bridge. Orga hoped this would all blow over. Well, it _would_ be over at some point -- sooner rather than later. All he had to do was make a call.

He let Eugene get to the bridge first. They both took their seats under Merribit’s ever-watchful eye. Even from behind it was obvious that Eugene had barely calmed down yet.

_Well, it’ll take us an hour to reach China, and maybe another two and a half hours to reach the facility McGillis --_

“Where to?” Eugene grumbled.

Orga took a breath, tapped a knuckle on the arm of his chair. “Chifeng. Inner Mongolia.” Although he had the exact coordinates, to give them would be too suspicious.

He saw Eugene looking it up. “Northwest, huh. The fun just doesn’t stop with you, does it.”

“I believe Artima is of Mongolian descent, come to think of it,” Merribit commented -- no doubt thinking she’d ease the tension but in fact making it worse.

“ _Inner_ Mongolia is still part of the Republic of China, even today,” Orga noted.

“Did your research, did you?” Eugene quipped.

Orga didn’t comment further -- if he made it obvious he’d already looked up where they were going, that might draw attention too.  


* * *

 

AC 211, April 14th, 9:00 a.m.    
_Four hundred and twenty-four years ago_

 

_He’d been watching her dance class through the gym’s open fire escape door for three weeks in a row, without saying anything. That’s when Artima had known that this ‘transfer student’ wasn’t anything of the sort. The class had ended and some of the students either went to their private tutorials or left, while a few ‘loyalists’ stayed behind, stretching and putting in extra practice, including her. She’d had to go closer to him to retrieve her MP3 player since her bag was by the fire escape, and they’d stared defiantly at one another. He’d had an apple cradled in his hand but wasn’t eating._

_Artima had run through her routine with the same track on repeat. Heero -- or ‘Jack’, as he’d aliased himself back then -- had watched her unabashedly, his face betraying nothing other than thoughtfulness. She remembered how absorbed she’d been in both performing, her soundbubble, and his gaze. Half an hour had gone by without her realizing, only the loud clunk of the main door closing bringing her back into the real world. Kal was the only one left, taking his private tutorial with the teacher in the glassed-in mezzanine level upstairs -- otherwise she had been left alone with Heero for the first time. He was standing, as though waiting._

_She’d walked toward her bag to put away her player, though she couldn’t be certain when its battery had died. “Did you want something?” she said. She stopped just short of her bag._

_“Yes. No,” he said blandly._

_Artima raised an eyebrow. “If you’re after my number, you’re gonna have to learn to ask for it yourself.”_

_“That’s not why I’m here,” he said._

_He’d picked up her bag for her and came inside the gym as he did so, pulling the door shut. She’d given him a confused look as she took the it from him._

_“You’re interesting. Much too interesting,” he said._

_“Am I now.” He’d grabbed her arm and started leading her across the gym. “Hey! What –”_

_“I think we need to stay away from each other.”_

_“Well that shouldn’t be hard!” She’d shaken him off and stood still._

_For a moment there was a flicker of emotion across his face, but not for long enough for her to label it, she remembered. She was as stumped now as she’d been back then. “What I mean is, I understand you.”_

_“Oh do you now? Three days of watching me in here and that’s what you’ve figured out?”_

_“From the way you move,” he said lowly, walking a step closer. “I understand exactly. And I think, in both our best interests, we need to stay away from each other.” He stopped right in front of her, as if in secrecy. “Before things get complicated.”_  


* * *

 

Artima woke as someone knocked on her door. She was groggy, still weighed down by steel-blue eyes and the dregs of a song from over three hundred years ago.

_“You and I are here, underwater…”_

Another knock. A voice she couldn’t -- or maybe wouldn’t -- recognize.

_“I sense you through the haze, just like a memory. Been down here for days -- have you seen me?”_

Tears prickled; she choked on what she abruptly realized was a scratchy throat. The music faded and she couldn’t recollect the tune any longer. The knock sounded again, and she pulled herself up into a sitting position.

“Artima? I thought you’d like to know we’ve landed -- in Inner Mongolia.” Merribit’s voice.

Artima coughed, stood. She’d only intended to lie down for a few minutes, but guessed she’d slept for far longer. The cramp appeared to be gone for now, at least. She answered the door. “Sorry, I guess I needed some sleep.”

Merribit smiled understandingly. “I’m not surprised. I’m sure your body is still playing catch up. You can go back --”

“No no, it’s fine. It’s my business that’s brought us here, so I should at least be awake for it.”


	11. Exhibition, I

**Chapter 11: Exhibition, I**

 

All less likely to run the risk of being recognized in public, Artima entered the bustling Chifeng Museum separately from, but at the same time as, Merribit, Lafter and Azee, and Eugene and Akihiro for backup. They were in acquired plainclothes, and made only brief eye contact as their entrance tickets were punched and they had a couple of practically-empty purses casually poked around in by security before being waved on through the metal detector. They were swept along with the lunchtime crowds and a horde of hyperactive schoolchildren. While Akihiro and Lafter used the guise of a casual stroll to check the exterior, Merribit meandered to guest services to see what information she could gather; Eugene took the upper level, leaving Azee and Artima to split to cover the ground level.

Artima was immediately taking note of the key tactical points of the interior -- doorways, the upper level, skylights, windows, the two staircases and the central glass-walled elevator, possible places to take cover behind pillars and other masonry, and so on. She supposed it shouldn’t have come as a shock to her that what was, effectively, history was in a museum, despite it being so close to her heart. What she allowed herself to continue to be piqued by was how quickly they had picked up the trail they’d left behind with the locals of Tsuruga. China remained, after all, immense. She’d been led to understand that the remains of the Komori had been brought to China purely coincidentally at first, for analysis, but in the following centuries the research on the Gundam frame itself had become repetitious and turned to the more sensational aspects -- the frame’s battle style, and the pilot. The Komori had slowly made its way from the lab to the realm of the museums. Taki, and thus the Komori, made excellent use of the national martial artform of kung-fu, and China’s thin claim to the exhibition rights was sealed. The siting of Chifeng in particular remained a mystery to her.

She passed underneath banners announcing the new, exclusive exhibition of a relic of the ‘Colonial’ Era, sponsored -- as was much of the museum, judging by its other marketing materials and the polished mosaic floor -- by Gjallarhorn. Its crest had been entwined with stylized creatures significant to Mongolian culture, all in brilliant cobalt blue; Artima frowned at the taloned beast and its horn and banner beneath her feet, but moved on toward the left-hand staircase as the signs encouraged. It was guarded by two immense bronze statues of rearing stallions, their manes and tails tossed in the wind.

Though she’d hardly wanted to, Artima glanced at the program she’d been handed as she rounded the staircase, going into the hall behind it instead of upward.  _ “Whiplash and Wonder! The Age of the Eternal Meteor!,” _ it read.  _ “Explore the fascinating history behind one of the mobile suit industry’s most crucial links in the scientific evolutionary path that led from primitive space brawls to refined modern warfare.” Fuck that’s a mouthful,” _ she thought. And they certainly hadn’t called the Komori ‘the Eternal Meteor’ back in the day, though its primary weapon had been a meteor hammer.

As she approached the eastern wing -- a bright patch of light bustling with people at the end of the hall -- Artima took a slow, deep breath and debated her decision to come. Glances at programs clutched in sweaty hands and sticking out of back pockets and framed posters either side of her all bore a black and red artist’s rendition of the Komori, superimposed with blocky typography spelling out ‘the Eternal Meteor’. Just how much information had they dug up and collected over the past three centuries? What would she have to come face-to-face with?

The eastern wing was about as large as the hangar under the dojo, and it had been split directly into quarters by temporary walls -- the left-hand side was devoted to the special exhibition, while the back of the right had been curtained-off from view with more banners excusing the inconvenience and promising more new and exciting content soon. Narrow windows around the roughly square space flooded it with sunlight, and the sounds of screeching children soared above the murmur of the adult throng. It smelt of sweat, carpet-cleaner, and the faintest trace of mineral oil. Artima took another deep breath and hesitated as she stopped in front of an enormous piece of modern art in steel and porcelain suspended from the ceiling, representing the Wing Gundam in flight, complete with stylized wings shedding porcelain feathers. Behind it, occupying the front portion of the right-hand side of the museum wing, she could make out the shape of the Deathscythe’s scythe, its beam blade represented with green-illuminated glass or acrylic. She swallowed. It was like an altar to those of them that’d remained active in AC211.

_ A lot, then. I’ll have to look at a lot. But...it shouldn’t take long to at least confirm which parts of the Komori are here. Tactical assessments will take a little longer, what with all the people. Then we take our assessments and ideas back to the Isaribi, form a plan. Night theft, of course, _ she reminded herself. Focusing on her purpose helped her feet carry her forward, her legs keep her upright, her eyes open.  _ This isn’t the worst you’ve endured. _

The special exhibition to the left funneled visitors first through a weaving tunnel of the history of the industry leading up to the Colonial era, including interactive touchscreen displays of the blueprints of the ‘primitive’ suits the program had referred to. This then opened up into a bay of sorts, with the four corners each occupied with outlining a different aspect of the military function of mobile suits, both terrestrial and extraterrestrial, and how key wars had changed the demands on suits and their pilots. Artima kept going. Another short hall of sorts was made by cloth-backed boards displaying children’s artwork before at last, the main prize.

At the back of the exhibition was a large space, its center occupied by a huge glass case containing fragments of the Komori hovering, courtesy of thin wire, in their appropriate places. Artima stopped in front of the towering skeleton and observed what had survived.

Not enough.

Pieces of the left leg, a fragment of the right hip. The right forearm and hand were still clutching the chain of the meteor hammer -- one of its weighted, spiked heads had fiery lights installed and a speaker somewhere simulated sound effects of it whooshing through the air, while the other, dark head was at the end of a winding coil that wrapped around the chest cockpit. The one remaining door on the intact side of the cockpit was thrown open, the empty interior illuminated. A small amount of armor indicated the neck, leading to half of the skull and small fragments of the scorpion-claws headpiece Taki had once been so proud of. 

_ She’d detonated before the crash, then,  _ Artima observed. Cold swamped her, rooting her to the spot as the crowds milled past her. She forced herself to look away from the cockpit at the floor.

Artima felt panicky despite herself. But what had she thought she’d find? An entire suit, complete with its operating system, ready to go? There was nothing here for her to take back to the Isaribi and bargain with. A wasted trip, essentially. She would have gained more information by hiring a hacker or, hell, just reading a textbook to show them how the Komori worked, how its system was probably being adapted right now. She felt foolish. 

It had to be masochism that pulled her head up to look at the rest of the exhibition. Around her were spread informational displays and small artifacts all related to Operation Nouveau and its own folly.  Someone had made a wax model of Dr Sven Akimo -- her Doctor -- and it stood staring at her from a couple of meters away. She resisted the urge to seize it and break it into pieces. Under her feet was a to-scale map of the actual city of Nouveau, with key areas outlined in red. Someone had made a video tour of the Equinox, the ship where Kheree had been made and Artima and Dr Akimo had lived -- curious teenagers were jumping between views of the suit bay, the training room, her room. An audio installment was explaining the role of Heero Yuy and Duo Maxwell, and she half-listened while she wandered, stunned, around the square enclosure.

“...sent to the city under the orders to spy on Pilots 06 and 07, believing them a threat to the supposed ‘secret weapon’ kept at Nouveau...not fully understood how the so-called ‘Sweepers’ received word of Dr Akimo’s intentions… Fascinatingly, it seems that one cannot avoid human nature, and the growing closeness of all four pilots inevitably led…”

Artima’s attention was drawn by a young, well-dressed girl with violet hair and blue eyes tugging along an older, tall blond man -- perhaps a guardian. He nodded ahead and said to her, “Look, there’s a docent, there. You can ask if you’d like.”

The girl huffed a little, releasing his hand. “I will!” She marched over to the smiling docent scarcely three feet away from Artima. “I have a question,” she said.

“Oh yes? What’s that?”

“So, when a mobile suit is destroyed, don’t they have black boxes like old airships did?”

This seemed an odd question for a young girl, to Artima, but the elderly docent seemed delighted. “Why yes -- at least, the old ones like this one. But we don’t keep those here. They’re at another facility,” he chuckled. He gestured around them, “Much of the Eternal Meteor’s data was, of course, studied. That’s how we know all the things it did, so we could display them.”

The girl looked around them, too, but didn’t seem satisfied. “But you can’t put everything on display, right?”

“Well, no. Some of it is classified, still. And to be honest, some of it isn’t all that interesting,” he winked at her conspiratorially. 

She made a disappointed sound. “I still want to know more...but there’s a lot here!” she quickly said, surprisingly diplomatic. “It’s been very-well done!”

The docent laughed again. “I’m glad you think so, Miss. Thank you. Do you want to be a pilot one day?”

The conversation trailed into things of little significance to Artima. She mulled this scrap of information over. As the girl thanked the docent and moved away, Artima caught the glance of the guardian and was uncertain whether he was smiling at her or his charge. They turned and were lost in the crowd. 

Artima debated leaving, herself, and was about to when one more part of the exhibition caught her eye. The far corner had been curtained-off to create a darker area with a different kind of lighting inside. A sign standing beside it proclaimed, ‘Inside The Everyday Life Of An Undercover Pilot!’. She took a few steps closer and could hear the murmur of a young woman’s voice and the giggles of children.

She knew she shouldn’t. But she did anyway.

Artima fell into line with a couple of other museum-goers and entered the small room, which was dark except for remarkably domestic lighting. She froze, realizing she’d walked into the past -- a startlingly accurate recreation of her and Taki’s rooms, the wall between them knocked down, from the cramped apartment they had used during their time in Nouveau. Along with the sparse pieces of furniture, the walls included small displays of both replica and actual objects she and Taki had owned, along with two-dimensional informational displays. What truly spurned the nausea in her stomach, however, was the young girl dressed up to impersonate Taki, sitting on the end of Taki’s bed telling stories to four young children at her feet. The bright red, short wig was like a burning coal under her spotlight.

Artima watched her, the nausea getting stronger, the urge to cry or scream trying to spiral out of control. The girl was good at her job even if she’d never look, to Artima’s mind, exactly like the real deal. She was glad of the dark.

Someone bumped into her and excused themselves, shaking her from her shock. She temporarily joined the flow of the patrons around the room, numbness taking hold of her. The most absurd and random objects were on display with more significant ones, no doubt wanting to evoke as much human contrast as possible, each with a tiny placard noting when the object was found or donated and by whom. They’d found Taki’s gun and meteor hammer, her gi complete with black belt, her locker key from Priori Tech where they’d gone undercover as students, her basketball, her rock-climbing shoes, a collection of sweet wrappers, her backpack, an old class notebook open to show her all-uppercase handwriting, a medal she’d won for track, her favorite mug with the giraffe and the initial ‘T’, a hairbrush. While pictures of them both were thankfully scarce, beside a scorched ticket to a movie was a strip of three photobooth snaps of Taki and Duo. She looked happy -- her green eyes were bright, wicked. Artima wondered if Duo had been there at the end for her.

Bridging Taki’s side of the room and her own was a shaded video installation and written description of their collaborative fighting methods -- what they’d casually called the ‘rhythm’ style -- and how it worked in practice at both the human level and the Gundam level. The old ‘boom-box’, as Taki had called it, that they’d often taken outside for practice was in its own glass case above the monitor, with a placard proclaiming that their mixtape was available for purchase in the giftshop and that the headphones provided could be used to have a listen. They used performers and CG models in the video demonstration; while Artima had to admit at a glance it was fairly accurate, it also fell short of depicting what it truly  _ felt _ like to fight with Taki. It’d made the most of Artima’s gymnastic and dance experience and Taki’s martial arts background, and taken it a step further with the build of their Gundams -- Komori primarily for defense, and Kheree for offense. They’d been invincible, but only together. Artima had, in a way, always relied on Taki’s protective circle, and she felt particularly bereft of it now with these oblivious strangers moving past her.

They’d compiled as much biographical information about her and Taki as possible and enlarged the text, hanging it with a tiny spotlight above their beds -- Artima’s was far shorter. Purely out of cynicism Artima browsed her own wall to see what they’d managed to find of hers: her laptop and desktop computer, her employee swipe-ID for the pharmacy she’d worked at, pointe shoes that were in fact not hers but Kal’s that he’d left behind, her medicine case open to reveal the syringe and a single vial and the handwritten note from Taki to herself when she needed to administer it on her behalf, a bra -- Artima rolled her eyes -- and stick of deodorant, her favorite amber-colored nailpolish, her lighter, her collection of silver bangles, her gun. 

“...and guess what happened then?” the impersonator asked the children. “We ran for it! All while there were explosions going on all around us -- boom, boom,  _ boom! _ \-- and Heero and Duo were trying their best to stop us but we got in the base anyway…”

Artima swayed, flinching at the girl’s sound effects as she remembered that run. It hadn’t been long after that when the four of them had determined that they’d been had, and that they were actually all on the same side. She doubted the impersonator knew, or would tell if she knew, the rest of that story. These kids were a little young to hear about torture. 

Artima felt tired all of a sudden. The cramp in her abdomen was back and her muscles were aching. She pushed out of the stuffy darkness in search of water.


	12. Exhibition, II

**Chapter 12: Exhibition, II**

 

Merribit’s attention drifted from the coffeetable book of photos of the history of the museum she’d been obliged to go through with the head of Guest Services as a young girl’s excited voice came to the central island of desks seemingly ahead of her body. 

“Excuse me! Excuse me!”

“Yes, Miss?” said the docent next to Merribit and the manager.

“I’d like to become a patron!”

The docent indulged her, “Is that so? We’re very grateful.”

Merribit glanced at the girl as she came to the desk beside her, and after a second look froze, panic overtaking her. It was Almiria Bauduin. Which could only mean -- 

“Miss Stapleton, what a pleasant surprise.”

Merribit swallowed, turned to face McGillis Fareed approaching his young fiance. She smiled quickly. “I might say the same, Sir!”

“One must have a diversion every now and again,” he said, and placed a gloved hand behind Almiria’s back, “Almiria is quite the patron of the arts, and has taken a keen interest in science and technology.”

“For you, Mackey,” the girl said. “I want to know more about your work.”

The two adults chuckled politely.

“It so happened that I also needed to come to check on the final preparations for tonight’s gala,” he continued. “Which reminds me.” He fished in his jacket pocket and procured a narrow envelope, “I’m a little old-fashioned -- might I ask you to give this invitation to your employer?”

Merribit accepted it, tucked it in her purse. “Of course.”

A slight pause, and then McGillis said, “Well, don’t let us keep you. Enjoy the rest of your visit.”

She returned the smile and, realizing it was a strange but irrefutable cue to leave, excused herself. She did her best to keep calm as she searched for the rest of the team.

_ It cannot be pure coincidence that McGillis is here on the same day that we arrive searching for clues, even if the Komori exhibit has been open for a week now,  _ she thought.  _ And now there’s an evening gala of some kind? _ She wanted to open the invitation to ascertain the particulars for herself, but refrained.  _ It’s possible that he’s already seen Artima wandering about, and even if he hasn’t, me being here will have aroused suspicion -- we were meant to be heading for Mars, after all. We need to leave as soon as possible. _

Azee fell into step beside her as she headed for the special exhibit. “I saw,” she said. “Lafter and Akihiro will still be outside; I saw Eugene come this way not long ago.”

“Presumably headed for Artima,” said Merribit, trying to cheer herself. “He’s becoming predictable, that one. Convenient for us, though.”

 

* * *

 

He felt like a creep, realizing what he’d done. Following just out of sight -- wanting to see if she’d pick up on his presence -- roaming through these pieces of her private life on display for everyone, then standing here watching her from a distance as she seemed to get her bearings yet look more and more lost as she did so. 

_ This is bad, _ Eugene thought to himself.  _ Orga was right. You need to --  _

He was startled when Artima rushed to a small trash can beside one of the staff’s interactive displays and vomited into it. As he walked over the staff member anxiously offered her a paper napkin and a half-drunk bottle of water, which she accepted with an apology.

“Hey, you all right?” he asked as he joined her. She gave him a severe look with raised eyebrows, but didn’t object when, without waiting for any other response, he began to lead her away. “Sorry, I guess it’s obvious. Let’s go.” He navigated them carefully through the crowds.

Artima swigged at the water, kept silent and kept her head down.

 

* * *

 

“Clearly it’s deliberate,” Merribit said. “It could be a trap of some kind.”

“He doesn’t have any reason to trap me,” Orga said. “We’re business partners at this point.” He glanced at Artima, expecting some kind of snide holier-than-thou remark, but she was quiet as she sipped at a large bottle of water that she’d turned light green earlier with some kind of powder, apparently preoccupied with not coughing too much in front of him. She’d been oddly quiet since the group got back, come to think of it. He fiddled with the gala invitation in his hand, then sat forward. “Well, time to RSVP.” He propped the tablet up and made the call; the dial echoed through the office. Artima walked slowly away from the window to behind the tablet to remove her shadow from view.

McGillis accepted the call with a, “Glad to hear from you.”

Orga held up the embossed cream card, “Got your invite. Didn’t realize this was your kinda thing.”

“Normally not,” he admitted, “but for one, it’s an interest of my fiance and therefore mine, and two, this particular occasion is worth my backing.”

“The ‘private advanced viewing of additions to the exhibit’,” Orga quoted from the card. “What might that be?”

“Oh I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise. Will we see you there?”

“Brings me to my point -- isn’t it a risk to us both for me to be anywhere near you?”

McGillis smiled indulgently. “It’s a small gathering. Invitations have only been given to those who share our goals. Your presence will not be a risk. Of course, if you’re still concerned you’re welcome to send an emissary -- I’m sure you can think of someone worth sending in your stead.”

Orga both felt Artima and Merribit’s eyes on him, but held McGillis’ own. So this was about Artima, some kind of way. An opportunity to hand her over, maybe. But if so, why do so publicly rather than the quieter method they’d hypothetically agreed upon before? Why go through all this trouble? He considered a moment. “I’ll be there,” he said.

“That’s good to hear. And don’t forget your plus-one.”

Another jibe that he wouldn’t entertain. “I won’t.”

The call ended. His eyes lifted to Artima. She didn’t blink as she asked, “Does he know I’m among you?”

Her wording conjured the image of the viper they’d seen on the forest floor, but he didn’t blink either as he said, “Not that I’m aware of.”

Interestingly, she did not push. But even more interestingly, it was Mikazuki instead. “Miss Merribit, you said that special exhibit was all about Artima’s time? And that part of it was blocked off?”

Merribit agreed.

“Then, what if this opening of a new part of the exhibit is something to do with Artima’s suit?” Mikazuki speculated.

Merribit’s eyebrows rose and she tipped her head to one side. “If McGillis suspects she’s with us, putting the suit on display could be a lure,” she agreed. “Though it seems like going through all that trouble would take a lot of time to prepare -- he’d have to have suspected for a while.”

“He may think we have the Khort Mogoi, too,” Mikazuki added. His tone was uncertain and Orga had to wonder what the purpose of the pretense was -- owing to their conversation when they were bringing the Khort Mogoi on board, Mikazuki knew that Orga had been in touch with McGillis and by association, that he’d told McGillis of their acquisition -- and there was no point in that acquisition if they did not, in addition, have Artima. The office was suddenly claustrophobic, even with just the four of them.

_ Mika what are you trying to do? Get me to own up? That’ll get us nowhere, _ Orga thought. “It’s a possibility,” he admitted -- after all, beware he who doth protest too much. “It could also be a bluff. We won’t know anything for certain unless I go. Mika, you’ll come with me. Unless...” he looked at Artima. “I mean, it  _ is _ your life in that room.”

Artima smirked, “What, you think I’m going to get all dressed up and do the glamorous lady-spy thing? You really don’t know much about espionage outside storybooks, do you?”

“I wouldn’t know, we didn’t have those in CGS,” he smirked back. “Though to be honest espionage isn’t my style, anyhow.”

She walked toward the door. “I’ll go, but not with you -- I’ll pose as a member of waitstaff and hide until lights out, if there’s anything worth hiding for.”

His head fell back, resting on the chair. “The invite says Nine PM,” he said, and sighed when the door shut behind her.  _ Pick your battles. And besides… _

“I guess I’ll help her sort out a uniform,” Merribit stood.

Orga frowned at the ceiling. “Ms Merribit,” he said to stop her. “What was Artima drinking?”

“She said she had a scratchy throat, is all. We stopped and got her Vitamin C powder on our way back.” She chuckled, “Nothing suspicious, promise. Her immune system is still getting back online, as it were. I do wish both of you would stop being so suspicious of one another. It’s exhausting.” She left.

The tail of his thought came back to him.  _...and besides, soon it won’t be my battle at all. _

“Tonight, then,” Mikazuki said into the quiet. “Are you sure?”

Another sigh. He couldn’t answer.

 

* * *

 

Orga and Artima had at least agreed that he not be aware of her arrival or her movements. He wasn’t entirely sure when she’d left the Isaribi, in fact. He and Mikazuki had arrived ten minutes later than the advertized Nine o’clock by design; he’d donned his usual suit but, though Merribit had offered, Mikazuki had refused to dress for the occasion, which drew curious looks as they entered the museum. The building was lit both inside and outside, and a hired pianist was sending unobtrusive notes into the heights. There were maybe a dozen to twenty people in suits, Gjallarhorn uniforms, and evening gowns, he estimated, with a handful of waitstaff in the dark green shirts and white silk ties of the museum carrying lacquer trays of finger-foods and champagne. It didn’t take long for them to be found; he accepted a crystal flute just to have something to do and to help him blend in. Mikazuki declined the skewered shrimp in favor of the perpetual plums from his pocket. They were both glancing around for Artima as they moved through the crowd. 

“You made it, I see!”

Orga turned at McGillis’ voice as he moved through the crowd toward them. “It would have been rude to cancel last-minute,” he replied.

McGillis glanced at Mikazuki, “And you brought your plus-one. Though not the one I was expecting!”

Orga was tired already. “Who were you expecting instead?”

An aide interrupted McGillis’ response. “Sir, all the invitees have arrived.”

“Good, thank you. No need to waste time. Excuse me,” he nodded to them both with that ever-present smile and moved away, toward the grand staircase. When he reached it he climbed up a few steps to be seen above the crowd, and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’d be so kind as to make your way to the special exhibit.”

Excitedly, the crowd moved as one to the hall under the stairs, directed by more staff. Orga and Mikazuki lingered for a moment and then followed the other guests to the eastern wing. The left side was devoted to the special exhibit that Merribit and the others had reported back about earlier that day; he recognized the salient points as staff escorted them through it -- no doubt to up the suspense -- all the way to the very back of the wing. A walkway had been opened up between two temporary walls to allow entrance to the previously blocked-off back portion of the right side of the wing. Orga eyed McGillis as he and a Gjallarhorn aide emerged on a stage at the far end. 

As the space opened up, Orga saw that the stage wrapped around a covered rectangular shape -- presumably a case of some kind -- and that in the center of the space was a roped-off, large holographic projector platform about a couple of feet high, currently displaying a slowly-rotating Gjallarhorn crest. Otherwise the space was oddly bereft of ‘exciting additions’.  Still no sign of Artima. 

“Welcome, again,” said McGillis to calm the noise. “I’m honored to have you all here. As you’ve seen in your walk-through, Chifeng takes well-deserved pride in accurately and enthusiastically portraying the link between our colonial past and our current success as a governing body, thanks to advances in military technology -- and, hopefully, wiser decisions.” He smiled coyly.

Polite laughter at some joke Orga didn’t care to try to get.

“Those of you familiar with my work --”

_ Is that what we’re calling it?  _ Orga thought.

“-- know that I also take pride: in having my finger on the pulse for new developments that would see Gjallarhorn to greater heights, and in being resourceful that will facilitate those new developments.” He began to pace slowly. “We all are aware that thanks to salvaging efforts on the Gundams Wing, Deathscythe, and -- most recently and most especially -- the Eternal Meteor, also known as the Komori, we were able to bolster our own technology. What you may not know is that there is a fourth lost Gundam frame we should be thanking.” He gestured at the holograph display. All of the lights in the wing faded to black.

He supposed he shouldn’t have been, but Orga was nonetheless shocked by the appearance, in partial blue-tinted color like a bad bruise, of the Khort Mogoi in the display to his left. The crowd turned in unison, pressing toward it as if they understood all of its to-scale intricacies. It turned too, humoring them. Then Orga realized that it wasn’t the accurate depiction of the Gundam -- as if they’d taken a picture of it in the Isaribi’s hold -- that unsettled him, but the dark. Or rather, who moved in the dark with movements completely out of his control or knowledge. It was the depths of the water all over again.

He focused on the hologram.  _ Don’t be ridiculous. She won’t do anything you need to worry about and besides, it’s not you she’s after. _ He caught this last thought by the tail.  _ After? She’s not after anyone tonight. _ But what if she was? He was distracted by McGillis speaking again.

“The Khort Mogoi. Companion Gundam to the Komori and prototype for what was known as the Viper Construct, which succeeded the ZERO System and as a result, bridges that crude origin to our far more elegant Alaya-Vijnana System,” said McGillis. He paused, waited for the crowd to digest, then continued. “A curiosity, to be sure. But it’s understandable if you ask yourself what possible use such a curiosity has when it is so outdated.”

The hologram dimmed, but the lights didn’t go back on. Orga resisted the unreasonable anxiety that gnawed at him, surreptitiously scanned the faces around him as they shifted to look at McGillis for direction, expecting Artima to have suddenly appeared beside him. Mikazuki was staring at him when Orga looked his way, as though detecting the thought. A small smile.

The sound of the sheet being pulled off the display beside the stage brought Orga’s attention back around again. His squint was alleviated when the large rectangular glass case was slowly illuminated from below with golden light, revealing Artima’s pilot suit at last. It was black and ran from neck to wrist to ankle, as most of the old specialized suits did, and was hung spreadeagle. The front, one leg, and one arm were unzipped and splayed open, though from this distance Orga couldn’t see what was being shown inside. From what he’d heard from Artima, Merribit, and Shino, however -- and what he remembered of the bloody pinpricks on Artima’s legs that fateful day -- he recalled that there would be hundreds of needles inside.

“The Viper Construct was more of a physical system than the ZERO System and in that respect, closer to our Alaya-Vijnana System,” McGillis explained. “As much as we rightfully admire our system and the elegance I mentioned, it does have one flaw: it requires surgery, and it requires it by a certain age in order to be successful. The Viper Construct, though it of course required mental and physical conditioning as any system would, does not have such dire limits. I propose to use it to remove those limits.”

A few murmurs went through the crowd.

McGillis placed his hands behind his back, looked down at the stage as he walked a couple more paces, “Bad news, though, I’m afraid.”

Orga raised an eyebrow.

“And good news,” McGillis conceded. “I would not present a problem to you all without having a solution!”

More mild chuckles.

“The bad news is that this suit is incomplete,” he gestured at it, let his hand drop to his side. “It does not have its helmet, which we believe to have been attached to the Khort Mogoi itself. And as I’m sure you’ve noticed, there is no Khort Mogoi in whole or in part here. Neither do we have its short-lived pilot, the illustrious and elusive Artima Wei.”

For some reason, Orga began to feel uneasy. Genuinely, this time. Something wasn’t quite right. He nudged Mikazuki but didn’t have anything to whisper. 

After another languorous pause, McGillis leaned forward a little and added, “The good news, however, is that both the means to the suit and the pilot herself are in this very room.”

Excited and perplexed whispers rustled to life.

Orga saw the shadow step into the hologram in his periphery at the same time he felt his stomach drop, as if they were one and the same. He’d barely turned his head when Artima had aimed her gun at the stage and fired.


	13. Ambition

**Chapter 13: Ambition**

 

Chaos erupted. The aide beside McGillis had pulled at his arm but only enough that the shot struck him in the shoulder rather than the head or heart. The guests screamed and clamored for cover, patting themselves down in the dim light for weapons. Orga had reached out for Artima but she had disappeared into the darkness and the crowd once again. Instead, he and Mikazuki headed right for the side of the stage. There was a crash as a temporary wall was pushed down. 

Two more shots -- the hologram dissipated and the lighting for the suit cut out, stripping away what little light had been left. Orga could hear another staff member somewhere calling for the main lights. Glass shattered.

_ She’s going for her suit, _ he realized.  _ That’s...surprisingly reckless. _

“What do we do?” Mikazuki asked him as they crouched beside the short stage and drew their guns. They could hear the aide escorting McGillis out of danger.

Orga thought quickly, but evidently it wasn’t quickly enough.

Mikazuki continued, “If we go after her it might look like we’re helping her. Same if she makes it back to the ship. But if we follow McGillis and she sees, she might kill us before we make it out of here.”

The voices of museum staff were calling to the guests; flashlight beams were aimed directly at the ceiling to draw them.

“We do neither. Can’t assess anything in the dark,” Orga said. “Go with the crowd.” They moved cautiously back into the space.

Now he heard militant voices in the direction of the entrance to the wing, shouting over those of the staff and quieting the crowds. The main lights around the edges of the ceiling came back on. Orga and Mikazuki froze as if they were the criminals. Looking behind them, the pilot suit was indeed gone, and there was no sign of Artima. The last of the crowd were hurrying away back the way they’d come, leaving the two of them alone.

“Did you see her?”

Orga turned at McGillis’ voice. His aide, a tall brown-haired man, trailed him as he emerged from behind the back of the stage. He had a gloved hand pressed to his shoulder wound. “No,” Orga said. “Who was she?”

McGillis came to stand with them. “You know who,” he said quietly.

Soldiers rushed into the space, fanning out, before Orga could determine how the answer was given much less how to respond.

“Sir! Are you all right?” asked one soldier as she came over to them. 

“Well enough, thank you,” McGillis responded. “But we need to hurry; an intruder has stolen some of our property. She can’t have gone far.”

“Female, aged twenty to thirty, dark short hair, around 5’7 to 5’10, slender build, last seen wearing the dark green uniform of the museum staff,” the aide supplied rapidly, then turned to McGillis, “Sir, it’s unwise for you to remain here.”

“I am well enough to join in a search, Camice.” He turned to Orga and Mikazuki, “I’m glad you’re both here. We could use the help.”

Orga held his gaze, but after a beat, agreed, “Right.”

Seemingly satisfied, McGillis began to give out directions to the soldiers, and ended them with, “The four of us here will take the outside, in case she’s already managed to get out there.”

They were moving back through the exhibit, the other soldiers spreading out and away like slow-moving shrapnel. Orga’s gaze settled uneasily on McGillis’ back in front of him. No one spoke, though the shouting of others echoed down the temporary halls of the space and rose into the heights. 

_ I can’t believe we’re joining in a manhunt. I can’t believe she took the suit -- shot at McGillis! -- when there were so many people around. Something must have triggered her, not just him mentioning that she was here. _ This thought reminded him of the rest of McGillis’ words.  _ He was about to tell all these people that we have the Khort Mogoi. And if he knows that, he knows we wouldn’t have just found it by ourselves -- he knows we were the ones to get Artima out of Vingolf in the first place. So what is he up to, bringing us along and pretending we’re still allies? God I’ve botched our deal. Mars is as good as gone. _

They emerged into the night. All possible lights were on, but they only reached around eight feet away from the building before the darkness was there again, shrouding ornamental gardens, the road, a copse, other civil buildings. The gardens backed onto a river, he was fairly sure. If he was her, that’s where he would have gone. He hoped they wouldn’t --

“We’ll take the gardens, and from there the trees and the river,” said McGillis and began to round the building. 

_ Of course. _

“Orga are we really doing this?” Mikazuki muttered as they matched the quick walk.

“Please stop,” Orga said, nearly groaned. The constant questioning over his decision -- from two sides now, it seemed -- was practically painful at this point. After a moment of non-response he glanced at Mikazuki, who didn’t hold his eye for long and moved away like a dog picking up a scent. Orga sighed, muttered under his breath, “Shit,” and occupied himself with checking his gun while there was still light to see by. When it faded into little more than an ambience behind them, he clacked the magazine shut. McGillis joined him, as though the light had given him room.

“I feel I must be frank with you,” he said, and despite the wording his voice was devoid of the usual charm. “If that woman and that suit -- and the Gundam in the belly of your ship -- are not in my possession in the next hour, you and I will be at a disagreement. I will consider you and your crew as working against me. Our deal will be off. Do you understand? Whatever she may have bribed you with, is it really worth more than becoming the King of Mars?” He paused, but did not wait for an answer before he said, “Choose wisely,” and moved away again. He raised his voice to the others, “Spread out -- we don’t want her to get past us.”

Orga’s feet crunched on the gravel path as he moved into the garden, which consisted of rocky outcrops softened by low bushes and alpine groundcover and the occasional short tree. He thought he could see a couple of pagodas and the arched back of a bridge, so he assumed there was a pond, too. Willows weeping into a clear space seemed to suggest it too. 

_ Fucking ponds. _ His throat burned at the memory.  _ Fucking Artima. Fucking -- all of this. _ He looked around him carefully but couldn’t make out much at all; his eyes were still adjusting.  _ What did I think? That I have some kind of special sight that will always find her, no matter where she hides? She may not even be in here. _ He cursed as he ran into a stone lantern.  _ She could still be inside, calling our bluff. She could be halfway back to the Isaribi by now. She could be on the roof. There can’t possibly be enough men here to track her down.  _

He couldn’t hear the other three men -- even Mikazuki seemed to have abandoned him to this curse of a search. And if they didn’t find her? If she took a second shot at McGillis and got him this time? What then? He wasn’t sure which was better at this point, since both options ultimately meant that his ambitions would come to nothing and his family would be in even more danger. All because of her.

_ But if I find her.  _

He headed for a pagoda and the pond without knowing why. 

_ And if you find her? _

 

* * *

 

_ If they find me… _

Artima tried to pull herself to her feet with the help of the willow she’d slumped against, but the ripping sensation in her abdomen was doubling her over and making catching her breath from the run impossible. Not to mention her throat was raspy and the flu-like symptoms that had been building in her body all day were back in full force. Those, she could explain -- pond water, probably, and a compromised immune system. But the cramping? The sharp stabs of pain in her uterus? What was in all likelihood blood seeping steadily down her inner thighs? That didn’t make sense.

She breathed deeply, clutched her bundled-up suit to her. It’d been a rash move, to be sure, but she couldn’t help it. She’d started to feel ill and she didn’t know if she’d get another chance, and besides, that fucker on the stage had been the one to see her earlier that day. He knew her face, and he was her enemy. 

_ You need to keep moving,  _ she told herself.  _ Come on, you got out of a military base within an hour of waking up from cryosleep, you can do this. _

She pulled herself to her feet, her legs shaking. She stumbled a few steps onward, away.

_ But you did it with help. There’s none here. And the guy on the stage somehow knew that Orga had Kheree. So you might not be able to go back to the Isaribi. But Kheree’s there... You’re so close. _

Though she tried to stifle it, a violent wave of nausea had Artima falling into the concrete foundation of the pagoda, from there to her knees, and vomiting into the undergrowth. Her head was swimming with the pain and it was hard to focus on even the most essential train of thought.

_ Maybe it’ll pass, _ she thought, conceding as she pushed into the shrubs and sat with her back to the concrete, reloading her gun, swallowing on a dry throat.  _ Just hold out here for a few minutes. _

Footsteps. She tried to slow and quieten her breathing but the pain was making it difficult. She held her gun tight with both hands, aimed. She was shaking. 

“Artima?” came a hiss.

Orga. She retracted her aim but gripped the gun tight as another wave of pain hit her body. He came through the willow crouched, hands held out, his own gun in one of them.

“Here,” she rasped. A spasm in her uterus had her cursing.

“I heard you throw up. What are you doing?” he hissed again as he joined her.

“Same question. You first.”

“McGillis brought us out here -- there’s four of us, including me and Mika -- to look for you. Why aren’t you running?”

“I can’t,” she said.

“What?”

“There’s something wrong -- I’m, I’m bleeding and it’s not stopping. I can’t stand,” it hurt even more to admit to it.

“Did you get --”

“It’s coming from my vagina for fuck’s sake, and no it’s not a menstrual cycle.”

“I don’t --”

“You don’t have to get it, just help me!”

The pause that followed was alarming. Orga was in front of her but not moving to help her. He was looking at her, then glancing over his shoulder. Still not moving to help her. This was all so familiar to her -- like the last hour of her old life, when she -- when Heero had -- 

Artima reeled at more nausea, pushed it down somehow. After all, something far worse was in front of her. “That’s how he knew you had Kheree,” she realized. “You told him. You told him I was there all along.”

He didn’t answer her. She wished she could make out his face but at the same time was grateful for her own being hidden.

At length she said, “I understand. I do.” She no longer bothered to hush herself -- what was the point? “And I don’t blame you -- in protecting what we love, we can make the wrong choice.” She paused, waited. When he still didn’t speak she said, “Come on, then. Do it. I can’t physically resist and I promise not to shoot. You have to look after those kids.” Did his fist clench, at that?

“Hide the suit,” he said suddenly.

“What?” Artima croaked. Her grip tightened on it protectively.

“Hide it. I’ll send someone for it later.”

Orga helped her do it, stuffing it in the nearby electrical box for the pagoda’s apparently defunct lights. He took her gun and threw it in the pond with a  _ plop _ , and then pulled her upright. When it became obvious that she truly couldn’t support her own weight, he carried her. The sound of a helicopter grew closer until its searchlight and flashing red crown light were visible, criss-crossing the museum grounds. Despite the searchlight passing them over a few times and no doubt spotting them, Orga’s stroll was almost leisurely.

“I’ve resented everything about you,” he said at last over the roar of the wind through the trees and over the water. The pagoda opposite them was blanched by the searchlight in all its red, green, gold and white archaic splendor, and then plunged into gray. The searchlight stopped on them now, following their slow progress. “And yes, I’m doing this for my family.” 

Shouts in the distance, tiny silhouettes up the slope against the soft gold of the museum walls. A Gjallarhorn uniform was flitting among the trees -- the dark-haired aide. 

She was startled when Orga’s head leaned a little lower so she could hear him. “But I’m also doing this for you. There’s something wrong with you physically and we don’t have the means to help it. They won’t want you dead. So hold out as long as you can. We’ll keep Kheree safe.”

Artima swallowed, eyed the aide running closer, spotted Mikazuki heading for them, too. No sign of the blond fucker, McGillis. The wind from the helicopter was kicking up grit that scratched her face and stung her eyes, whipped their clothes and hair against one another. Though the pain was begging her to pass out, she uttered, “Why?”

“I owe you, for not letting me drown.”

“You did drown,” she admitted, remembering dragging him into that hangar and laying him out in the dust, listening for a heartbeat but hearing none. “I brought you back.”

He hesitated, stopped walking. “Then I’ll let you drown too, but I’ll bring you back.” He straightened -- she felt him take the deep breath that enabled him to shout, “Here!”


	14. Bargain

**Chapter 14: Bargain**

 

Orga felt Artima go limp, as if his shout had made her give up. Perhaps it would be easier for her -- for him -- like this.

_ Wasn’t making a decision supposed to make it better? _ he thought.

“Good, you were successful,” said Camice as he made it to Orga. Other Gjallarhorn soldiers were racing down the slope and Camice waved them over. 

“...Yeah,” said Orga. 

“She’s incapacitated?” Camice asked and stepped forward. He grabbed Artima by the shirt and pulled her unceremoniously out of Orga’s arms to the ground, from there nudging and straightening her with his boot as though inspecting but not wanting to touch too much.

Orga narrowly resisted reacting. “She was passed out when I found her. No sign of the suit she stole,” he said, hoping a preemptive denial would help.

“That will be a problem.”

McGillis had arrived at the same time as the soldiers; his voice slunk out of the dark vegetation and his body followed. Orga was grateful when Mikazuki came to his side, looking down at Artima.

“You didn’t put a tracker or something on it?” Mikazuki said, sounding bored.

No one replied. The soldiers hovered around them uneasily, hands on rifles.

Orga felt Artima’s blood growing sticky on his right hand -- the one that’d been under her legs, just like when he’d carried her from Vingolf that first time. Was he destined to forever have her blood on his hands? He couldn’t tell in the dark if she was still bleeding but he was reminded of the main reason he’d made this choice and didn’t want to chance it. Of course, he also didn’t want to sound too invested. “She’s bleeding. You might want to get her someplace before she winds up dead. Won’t do you much good then, will she?” He felt Mikazuki look at him but didn’t meet his eye.

McGillis turned to a grouping of three soldiers. “Look for the pilot suit.” They hurried away. Then to another pair, “Take her to my ship.” They lifted her like a corpse -- one at her shoulders and one at her feet -- and carried her away. Then, to Orga and Mikazuki, and gave the thinnest of smiles. “You will both join me there as well.”

“What? Why?” Orga sneered. 

“Insurance, purely. I’m sure you understand.” McGillis’ smile was stronger. “I asked for three things: the pilot, her suit, and her Gundam. Until the Khort Mogoi has been handed over, do you really think I would let you leave my sight?”

Orga sighed when the barrel of a rifle pressed into his back. At least this way, he supposed, they stood a better chance of keeping in proximity with Artima.

 

* * *

 

“Eugene?”

“Yeah?”

Merribit’s voice stuttered over the com into the bunkroom. “That was quick. I thought you’d be asleep.”

“Not yet.” In truth, nerves had kept him awake. This whole mission business that Orga and Mikazuki -- and yes, Artima -- had gone on seemed too fishy, no matter if it was technically a meeting with allies, but of course they didn’t listen to him. They’d been gone for a couple of hours, Artima around five. “Orga and Mikazuki back?” _ Artima back? _

Another hesitation, then the com crackled back into life. “...No. I need you to come to the bridge. As second-in-command.”

Eugene sat up fully, then. Across from him, Akihiro and Shino in their own bunks were coming to attention, too. 

“Well that can’t be good,” Shino said and rubbed an eye.

“On my way,” said Eugene.

The three of them pulled on a reasonable amount of clothing and hurried to the bridge, where Merribit, Lafter, and Azee had taken up a night-shift of sorts. Their expressions were a mixture of strained and suspicious. On the main screen was an unnecessarily large, in his opinion, view of McGillis Fareed, who looked strangely smug. Strangely, because it was moreso than usual and wasn’t he supposed to be hosting a gala or something? Why was he calling from a ship? It also looked like he’d been shot in the shoulder and it hadn’t yet been seen to. Eugene looked at Merribit.

“It’s muted. I need you to be calm and rational,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “He has Orga, Mikazuki, and Artima. He wants to make negotiations.” 

“Negotiations?” Shino, behind him, burst.

“He knows we have the Khort Mogoi,” Merribit added.

The bridge was quiet. Eugene chewed on his lip, felt his blood boiling. After a heavy moment he muttered, “I knew this was all a bad idea.” He took the captain’s chair under the blue-eyed sneer in front of him. “Unmute.” There was a  _ beep _ . “You wanted to speak with me.”

“With the second-in-command, yes,” said McGillis. “As no doubt Miss Stapleton --”

“Let’s cut to the chase,” Eugene interrupted, but not loudly. “I want to see them first. Show me.”

McGillis’ gaze dropped as though genuinely regretful. “Miss Wei is indisposed, as she’s currently being attended to by our physician --”

_ By a doctor? What the fuck happened? _ His panic was stoked by the images that came to mind.

“-- however,” McGillis turned his chair and the camera view shifted, drew out a little, and Eugene was able to see Mikazuki and Orga standing off to one side, cuffed but otherwise seemingly unharmed, between two armed soldiers. “As you can see they are quite well. I’m sure you’d agree that this is just a formality, since what I propose doesn’t require much thought. A trade: your commander and comrade here for the Gundam Khort Mogoi.”

“Never heard of it,” Eugene tried. “Or Miss what’s-her-name.”

“Mr Sevenstark, do I look like a simpleton?” McGillis answered without hesitation, the humor and charm gone from his voice. He did not elaborate; the blue of his eyes had grown darker, colder.

Eugene’s jaw worked itself. He looked at Orga, tried to determine what he would want him to do. Counteroffer? Outright deny? Accept? He wished he’d spent more time talking to Orga about the overall strategic value the Khort Mogoi and Artima had to Tekkadan’s future -- it was hard to weigh with relative unknowns. Not to mention he wasn’t happy that McGillis had neglected to include Artima in that trade.

“Take a moment to discuss, if you’d like,” offered McGillis, some of the amusement returning. He tipped a hand in Orga’s direction, “You can even take the order from your commander, if that’s easier.” His hands laced; he looked theatrically between Orga and Eugene.

“I trust your judgement, Eugene,” said Orga, his voice small with the distance but no less clear.

_ That’s an odd thing to say. What’s going on? _ Frowning, and keeping his eyes on the screen, Eugene said to Merribit, “Mute.”

Merribit did so.

“What’s there to discuss?” Akihiro immediately said. “We trade. We can’t move forward without Orga.”

“But why didn’t Orga say that, then?” Azee said. “You heard him. It sounded like he seriously wanted us to think about it, rather than doing the obvious.”

“Yeah but why?” Lafter asked. She shrugged, “It’s not like he particularly likes Artima, so that can’t be the reason.”

“And sure, Kheree’s a swell machine but…” Shino rubbed the back of his neck and looked at the deck.

“There’s no tactical advantage to us keeping it, and thus breaking ties with McGillis and by association, making an enemy of all of Gjallarhorn,” Merribit supplied, her voice dull. “Not to mention he’d have our best pilot and our leader.”

“It’d be chopping off Tekkadan’s head and setting it on fire,” Shino harrumphed, pacing a couple of times.

“Colorful,” Lafter commented wryly. 

Into the pause, Eugene said, “And Artima. He’d have Artima.” At the glances this drew, he elaborated, “Think about it. He had Artima to begin with and then he lost her; soon as he finds her again he suddenly knows we have her Gundam. She’s talked before about him wanting ‘the whole set’, how neither her, the Gundam, or her pilot suit are much good without the other. And now all this coincides with some addition to the special exhibit about her life? That addition must have been the pilot suit -- to lure her in. We should have known better.” He clenched a fist and pressed it to his mouth, not caring if McGillis saw the deliberation. “But how did he know? How did he know that both her and her Gundam were on board? That’s what I don’t get.”

“It’d have to be us, some kind of way,” Merribit said quietly. “Otherwise why bother to invite Orga?”

“It doesn't matter!” said Akihiro.

“Should we call Naze?” Lafter turned to Azee.

“There’s no time,” she replied. 

Eugene was focused on Merribit’s words. But both Akihiro and Azee were right -- whatever conclusions he was drawing and however angry they were making him,  he had to make a decision now. He breathed deep, sat up straight under the five pairs of eyes watching him. “Unmute.” Beep. “Terms accepted. You give us Orga and Mikazuki, we give you the Gundam.” He saw Orga shift in place -- deflate a little, maybe? -- but there was no going back now.

“Good,” said McGillis. “I have a team of technicians with a cargo ship that will be on their way shortly to collect the Gundam within the hour; your commander and comrade will ride with them.”

“Must be in a hurry,” Eugene commented.

“As you should be, too. If you haven’t left Earth space within the next four hours, you will receive an armed escort.”

He wanted to find some way to bargain for Artima, too, but that realistically wasn’t going to happen and it wouldn’t look good. As soon as McGillis ended the transmission he shut his eyes, wishing he’d gotten that sleep earlier.

 

* * *

 

The Gjallarhorn technicians and removal team had checked the Khort Mogoi over from head to foot before risking loading it into their own cargo ship. In case of sabotage, no doubt. Eugene sneered at the several floodlights they’d brought out, as if they’d been waiting for this day. The vast majority of the Isaribi crew were either beside him or lingering behind him -- somehow word had spread of the situation, but he wasn’t that concerned.

“That’s a shame, but no avoiding it,” Nadi said as the last third of the Khort Mogoi vanished into the cargo ship on its flat bed. 

“...No, guess not,” Eugene replied at length. 

The representative for McGillis that they’d been dealing with for the past couple of hours -- Camice, if he remembered right -- came up the ramp out of the dark of the grassland into the light, followed by two soldiers escorting Orga and Mikazuki. The crew relaxed when they saw them and greeted them when their cuffs were taken off, allowing them to walk forward of their own accord again. Eugene noticed that there was dark, dried blood on Orga’s right hand. He heard one of the younger boys ask where Artima was -- no one answered at first, and eventually Merribit began speaking in hushed tones. The boy whined his question louder.

“You have two hours left to leave Earth space,” Camice reminded them, ever dispassionate.

“Where is she?” Eugene asked. Not that he expected an answer but he couldn’t let the boys, who’d started to get attached to her, see that they didn’t care.

“It’s no longer of your concern. You should be grateful for this arrangement.” He turned and left.

“Let’s go,” said Orga. The group turned as one and headed inside; Nadi hung back to lift the ramp and close the hatch. 

Eugene fell into step with Orga. “Why did they know both Artima and her Gundam were on board?” he asked, not bothering to lower his voice. Without waiting for an answer he said, “You told them. You handed her over --”

“And what about it?” Orga said without lowering his voice, either, and stopped. “I told them, yeah. In the interests of protecting this family. Being at odds with Gjallahorn directly undermines the future --”

“This isn’t handing over a piece of information or equipment, it’s handing over a human being!” Eugene countered. By now the rest of the crew had stopped and were looking at them. Questioning Orga’s authority like this probably wasn’t wise but he didn’t care.

“If you would let me finish you’ll see why we’re both right,” Orga said. After a pause, he elaborated. “Yes, I told McGillis we had them both. But in the end, I wasn’t going to hand them over. I didn’t want you to hand over Kheree, either.” He clenched his bloody hand.

Eugene reeled. “Then why the fuck did --”

“She was injured,” Mikazuki interrupted. 

“ _ Then we could have treated her here _ ,” Eugene’s eyes were wide, his anger and confusion rising. “What the hell happened?”

“She shot McGillis and tried to steal her pilot suit from the exhibition,” Orga said. “We pursued her in the interests of looking like we were working with Gjallarhorn, because otherwise McGillis would cut ties. When I found her she couldn’t move, she was in so much pain. Wouldn’t stop bleeding. Looked like some kind of hemorrhaging. Whatever it was, we don’t have the medical facilities for that here, but Gjallarhorn does. I promised her we’d keep Kheree safe and handed her over to save her life.”

Silence fell. Eugene squinted at him, processing this turn of events. He wasn’t sure what to say.

“You hid the pilot suit, right?” Mikazuki said. “We don’t have much time to go get it.”

Orga turned from Eugene. “Ride.”

“Yeah?”

“They don’t know your face yet. I need you to go to the garden behind the museum…”

Eugene lost focus on Orga’s voice. No wonder McGillis mentioned a physician, he thought. Hemorrhaging -- is that internal? We can handle broken bones and surface stuff but… Wait. If it’s internal then why’s his hand bloody? Fuck I don’t know. He wiped a hand down his face. And how do we know that they’ll actually treat her? How do we get her back out? What are they going to do? And if --

“Hey.”

Eugene looked up at Orga’s voice. “Yeah?” The rest of the crew were moving away.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” he said. “I did the best I could.” It looked like he meant it.

Eugene sighed, admitted, “Wasn’t an easy choice. Not like mine -- like hell we weren’t going to get the two of you back. What were you thinking, wanting us to hold on to that Gundam instead?”

Orga thought for a moment, as though it was hard to articulate. “No Gundam, no trade. Then we would have been able to keep an eye on her, maybe. Can’t do that, now. Broke my promise, too.”

Quiet fell between them. Eugene suddenly smirked, “She shot McGillis, huh?”

Orga smirked too, nodded slowly, “She sure did. Think she could have killed him too if that Camice guy hadn’t pulled at him.”

Another pause while Eugene thought through the information again. “So if you’re getting her pilot suit back, that means…”

“What you think it means,” Orga said and walked away. “I owed her, and now you owe me. When Ride gets back, take us out of Earth space.”

  
  



	15. Carry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Note from the Author: For those of you sensitive to such material, there is a clinical description of a miscarriage following the italicized text. Please read with caution.

**Chapter 15: Carry**

 

AC 211, October 

_ Four hundred and twenty-four years ago _

 

_ “Why are you here?” Heero demanded, closing the door. “Were you sent? Are you following me?” _

_ Artima tried to remain relaxed. “Don’t flatter yourself –” _

_ “Why are you here?! Everywhere I look it’s either you or 06.”  _

_ “You’re the one who found us in the first place! Can’t you accept that this mission isn’t just yours?!” _

_ The gun at her chest, in the tiny office. His fury in the dark.  _

_ “You’re interfering,” he said. _

_ “Am I now.” _

_ “Yes. I’ll have to kill you unless you leave immediately, and stop jeopardising me.” _

_ She’d laughed. He clicked off the gun’s safety catch. _

_ “You’ve been warned.” _

_ “Go on, do it. Shoot me.” _

_ “What?” _

_ “Shoot me! Fucking shoot me!” She’d pulled the gun to her clavicle. “Shoot me! I’m gonna fucking die anyway so you may as well put me out of my fucking misery! Do it!” _

 

* * *

 

_ Then the submarine, the escape. _

_ “Why did you tell me? Of all the people to tell.”  _

_ She hadn’t answered him. Why didn’t she answer him? _

_ “You’re bleeding,” he’d observed, neutrally. _

_ “I’m aware.” _

_ “You didn’t answer my question.” _

_ “Was I meant to?” _

_ He’d grabbed her injured arm, started to bandage it. “I am perturbed by your disregard for life. Yes, even with your condition. You think your life is meaningless? If it was, you would’ve died already.” _

_ “Fascinating but when did you suddenly become the psychologist?!” She’d jerked her arm away to tie the bandage herself. “Why are you even out here? To lecture me?” _

_ She’d attempted to stand but stumbled. The slow loss of blood had weakened her considerably since she’d been out there. Heero had picked her up, walked back to the stairs below deck. _

_ “Put me down. I don’t need your pity or your questions or your fucking –” _

_ “No, I don’t think you need any of it. Personally I think you want it, deep down.” _

_ “How dare –” _

_ “But that’s not my point, here. I’m carrying you because you need some medical attention that I can’t provide in the dark.” _

_ They’d struggled all the way -- why had she struggled? -- power still hadn’t been restored to the majority of lighting, so going below deck was difficult at best. At one point Heero almost stumbled with her down the stairs. But emergency power would still be operational in the infirmary. _

_ “Thought about what you’re gonna do when you get to the fucking infirmary?” Artima said. _

_ “You’re the doctor; you’re going to tell me. You’re also going to tell me the name of what you’ve got, when you were diagnosed, and who by.” _

_ “What the fuck is this?”  _

_ Heero had stopped under the red emergency light they’d reached and angled them both to look each other in the eye. He was silent for a moment, then carried on walking -- said, “This is called finding a purpose.” He found the infirmary and shouldered through the door. Motion-sensing lights surprised them both with sudden glare. _

_ “Well congratu-fucking-lations but no way are you gonna use my medical records for whatever it is you’re planning!” She’s looked around for a weapon once he put her down, but as soon as she moved a violent spasm exploded up her spine. She cried out then clenched her jaw as her whole body shook and jerked, twisting her wounds.  Muscles flared hot and cold, her chest shivered violently, her vision blurred with each wave. The pain and disorientation escalated until her eyes rolled back in her head and her limbs curled into a foetal ball. Heero had shot onto the bed and forced her legs straight, sitting on them and raising her upper half into his arms, held tight. One of his hands held her head as still as he could. When finally the seizure died he laid her back and got off her legs.  _

_ “Can you hear me?” she heard him ask through her heavy breathing. Her head rocked from side to side, eyelids fluttering. She groaned softly and he held the sides of her face to keep her head still. “Artima, can you hear me?” His thumbs rubbed lightly over her eyelids -- she remembered that so well. She wished she knew why he showed her tenderness. _

_ “Kheree,” she said distantly. “Ryker’s Disease.” _

_ “Kheree is safe,” Heero said. “It’s below deck, we’re on our way –” _

_ “I am Kheree.”  _

_ “No, you’re out of the cockpit now, not in the Viper Construct.” _

_ She’d opened her eyes fully, lucid, and stared into his own. “No, I mean my name is Kheree,” she said quietly with a hint of resignation.  _

_ He was quiet for a moment, and didn’t let go of her face. Did he believe her back then? “And Ryker’s Disease? That’s your illness?” _

_ “Yes,” she said in the same tone as before and slowly continued, “it’s genetic. Triggered one day by a malfunction of the Viper Construct; by Kheree. My Doctor diagnosed it.” _

_ “And who was your Doctor?”  _

_ She’d looked away. “Why do you care? It won’t change anything,” she whispered. _

_ “Because,” he said almost incredulously, as if there were no other answer.  _

_ She didn’t say anything else, perhaps not wholly convinced, and wouldn’t look at him. For a few moments there was nothing but their breathing – hers ragged but deep, still recovering.  _

_ “I’m going to bind everything,” he said, but she was falling asleep. He released her face and let it gently loll to one side. “I’ll fix you.” _

 

* * *

 

_ Their own private war, drawing into the winter of AC 211, through New Year’s, into AC212. They’d barely noticed the time passing. Seek-and-destroy, or be sought and destroyed. It was hard to do when you were already dying. But she could function in Kheree, which at that point was what they needed -- when she wasn’t in the suit, the other three looked after her while the disease racked her body. There was no medicine to even suppress it at that point. _

_ She’d learnt his ring did indeed mean a wife, and that he was widowed. She’d learnt that he and Duo continued accepting missions of one kind or another because they didn’t know anything else. She’d let him learn her real name -- not Kheree, or Artima -- which was more than even Taki knew. She told him about her wish for a normal life and the glimpse of it she’d seen during her time in Nouveau, with Kal. She’d let him learn all about Dr Sven Akimo and her training, though at that point they had no idea of his true motives. They’d had no one else, after all, in those short cold days. They never really learned if the other was an ally or an enemy, never really decided whether to let the other live or die, only that there was something holy in hanging in the balance. _

_ The latter stages of Ryker’s Disease included stronger seizures, blackouts, disorientation, and hysteria. She was useless. He must have arranged something with Doctor J, in secret. Taki and Duo had taken Kheree from her. _

 

* * *

 

_ She was too disorientated by that point to know what was happening. She knew that Doctor J’s base, where the two of them had sheltered, had been ambushed. For some reason Heero was carrying her as he ran. She remembered sparks and rubble falling on them. She remembered wanting to talk to him, or him to her, but neither happening. Shots were fired -- they were being pursued. _

_ She remembered him putting her in that cryogenesis bay strangely gently. She hadn’t known what it was. Absurdly, she’d thought it some kind of protection and wanted him to climb in with her. He’d held onto her head for as long as he could as it thrashed from side to side, a seizure guttering out. He’d looked at her and she’d stilled. Bullets struck him. He’d let her go, saying nothing, forcing the hatch closed. She felt like she was falling backwards and struggled to focus. His hand on the glass -- she reached for it and kept on reaching… _

 

* * *

 

PD 324 

_ Present; the following day _

 

Artima’s eyes eased open to a sun-filled room in silver and beige. She heard the beeping of a heart monitor. An IV was in her bare arm.

_ Has time repeated itself? Was I frozen again? How many centuries this time? Am I fated to encounter the same souls in different bodies?  _ What had she been remembering? Falling in the garden, or falling -- 

“Miss Wei?”

She didn’t recognize the voice, but turned to it. A man maybe in his late forties or fifties, hair slate-gray tied back in a short ponytail, glasses peeking out of the breast pocket of his white labcoat. He was sitting on a rolling stool next to her hospital bed.

“I’m Dr Isaacson. You’re in the Vingolf Medical Wing on Earth,” he said. His voice was calm, clear, slow, like rain sliding down glass.

The weight of the dream, the memory, slid away. Present circumstances came back to the forefront. “I must not be much of a prisoner, if they’re letting you tell me that.”

At the croakiness of her voice, he leaned over to a side table and poured water in a paper cup, gave it to her. Though it helped the dryness of her mouth, she still felt the flu-like symptoms. At least the horrendous cramping from the night before -- was it the night before? how much time had passed? -- had subsided into a dull ache, but she knew better than to leave it at that.

“I’m not a warden,” he said with a shrug, but his voice remained somber, oddly sympathetic. “I’m a doctor. As such, I feel I should tell you your afflictions.”

“Sepsis of some kind, I’m sure.”

He nodded, laced his hands together, and leaned forward to prop his elbows on his knees. “A bacterial infection in your respiratory system which, for someone whose immunity has been as compromised as much as yours, would have taken a miracle to  _ not _ lead to sepsis.”

_ Fucking ponds. _

“Unfortunately there’s also a viral infection mixed in as well, which...leads to my next piece of news.”

“The hemorrhaging,” Artima said.

“You’ve had a miscarriage,” he said.

Artima squinted at him. It made sense, symptomatically, but in terms of plausibility it also very much didn’t. Then again, not much about her new life was based in plausibility. 

“Early second trimester, from what we could tell,” he added.

_ Not that it really matters, _ she thought. Her scope of study hadn’t taken her into the realm of pregnancy, but she did know a little. “But...I didn’t feel anything, didn’t show.”

Dr Isaacson sat back. “Of course your situation is rather unique, so this is purely speculation on my part: it’s possible that your cryogenic stasis...warped the normal hormonal conditions of your uterus. I believe,” he said gently, “that the foetus was already dead, but it’s taken you longer to have the actual miscarriage, which technically places it in the early second trimester. This coincides with an infection that seems to have been festering in your uterus. There were -- are -- several fibroids and endometritis that in turn need addressing, but at least we stopped the bleeding. Awful as it is, if you had had a more...sedentary recovery period from your awakening, it’s possible the miscarriage would have been stagnant for longer, in which case we’d have a much more serious problem on our hands.”

Artima frowned at the floor. It was hard to know how to feel, what to think. Of course pragmatism made her try to think of the sexual partners she’d had three months prior to being frozen. It was blurry, hadn’t been a priority really -- back then sex was just sex. But…

_ You can’t think about this now. There’s more pressing matters. _

As though on cue, the door to the decently-sized patient room opened to reveal McGillis. The blond fucker. His left arm was in a sling. Dr Isaacson stood, but it seemed reluctant, and he did not stand aside. 

“I’m pleased to see you’re awake,” said McGillis.

“Are you always pleased to see the people who shoot you?” Artima said. She sat up a little higher in her bed. The move tugged on the muscles in her abdomen and lower back and she tried not to wince.

“That depends whether the bullet was worth it.” He stood at the foot of the bed but looking out of the window.

“And was it?” Artima refused to be ruffled, even in her vulnerable state.

“If you tell me where you hid the pilot suit you stole from me, it might be.”

“That you stole from me, you mean. At any rate I don’t think it will fit you,” she sneered.

He ignored the last comment. “You were practically dead. It’s not stealing from a corpse.”

“Maybe next time you’ll make sure.”

He turned to her at last, came to stand on the opposite side of the bed to the doctor. “Oh I intend to.”

She knew that tone. She knew it from the interrogators at Adagio Industries. Despite this, she said, as bored as she could muster, “I’m not going to tell you.” Her heartrate remained level.

His eyes flashed, narrowed.

_ What did he expect? _

“With all due respect, Sir, I cannot permit you to harm a convalescent,” said Dr Isaacson. “It is inhumane and if it occurred, I would need to report it to the Ethics Alliance.”

Artima was surprised, and it seemed McGillis was too because there was a long pause before he packed away his irritation and unpacked his charm. “I’m sure there’ll be no need for that. At any rate,” he focused on Artima again, “now that we have your Gundam, I’m sure with our modern technology it won’t take us long to recreate the suit. I was hoping to not have to go through the trouble but alas.” The smile dropped. “Then the questioning will just be for my own entertainment.” He glowered at her and left the room.

The room was silent again except for the bleeping of the heart monitor. Despite herself, there was hurt in her chest -- Orga had said they’d keep Kheree safe. Why was she here, then? What had happened? He’d given her the impression that yes, he’d told McGillis they had her, but then that he’d changed his mind and wasn’t going to hand her over. Had Gjallarhorn taken it by force? Or had she been lied to? Then again, she knew they didn’t have as sophisticated of medical facilities as a ground site, and if the bleeding hadn’t stopped...

“Thank you,” Artima said, because she felt she should. “But there’s no need to risk your job or your life. You’ve obviously read my file -- you know who I am, what I was.”

“...Yes, I know who you are.”

This subtle phrasing gave her strength, somehow. That all was not gone. That she wasn’t bluffing, despite being confined as she was. That she could figure out a way…

_ Look at you, so eager nowadays to live.  _ She would have laughed if she didn’t suspect it would hurt.

Dr Isaacson was moving around. He said, with an air of a sudden decision, “I’m going to give you a weaker dosage that will slow your recovery.”

She watched him fully open the seal on the vial, tip about half of it into the little sink and fill it again the rest of the way with water, then open a syringe. “Not that I can’t connect the dots, but -- I need to be at my best for what I have to do.” Once she figured out how, of course.

“Would you rather be in full health in an interrogation room, or lukewarm outside of it?” he asked as he filled the syringe, pressed it a little to get the air bubbles out.

It would give her more time to plan, she supposed. She watched the needle go in.  _ “Hold on as long as you can,”  _ she remembered Orga saying.  _ “I’ll let you drown, and I’ll bring you back.” _


	16. Needles

**Chapter 16: Needles**

 

For lack of any other ideas where to put it, they’d decided to keep Artima’s pilot suit in the infirmary. Now that they were a day into the course back to Mars with nothing eventful transpiring, although Eugene had tried to avoid thinking about it, he’d found himself digging out the suit’s box from under the trays of antiseptic bottles in the cabinet. He took it over to one of the beds and sat down, looking around to verify yet again that he was alone before opening it. He held the suit by the shoulder seams and let the box slip down his outstretched legs to the floor. 

The needles were still out, and so he handled carefully. The material, however, had a leather-like texture on the outside and was surprisingly soft on the inside, and could be stretched to a certain degree. He passed his fingertips through the lines and groupings of needles over the softness; he could feel the tiny ridges of what he assumed was wiring hidden between the two fabrics. It grew warm under his touch.

_ So this is what she would wear, _ Eugene thought. He wasn’t sure why he was in here looking at the suit. Maybe because it was the only sign that Artima had ever been here. If they didn’t have this, they could chalk it up to a weird collective dream. But he had to dig deeper, and to do so he had to remember part of what Orga had said to him yesterday when they were leaving Earth’s orbit:

_ “Listen, you didn’t promise her anything. I did. And I’m not going to keep beating a dead horse and go back to what I told you outside the ship that night because obviously that didn’t work  _ and _ it’d make me a hypocrite. I’m asking for your help because you’re my deputy, but also because otherwise you’d do something stupid on your own without me knowing and get yourself killed.” _

Eugene smirked to himself at the memory.

_ “But what you need to make sure is that you’ll do something stupid for the right reason. If this is just some flyby infatuation like you’d get for any woman, I’m not risking you. I’ll get Nadi to lock you up in a crawlspace for a month, and we’ll forget the whole thing. Because as much as I promised Artima I’d help her, my duty is still to Tekkadan first and that includes you. So, you’ve got a few days. Do some thinking.” _

_ So what is this, then? _ Eugene asked himself. It’d only been fairly recently in his life that women had even been a reachable concept. To try to hurry up and figure out if this  -- if she -- was different than an outlet for repressed hormones seemed impossible. Where could he even start? There was no point of reference, really.  _ And why do I need to figure it out, anyway? Why does Orga think it’s so important? She’s a human being in an unfortunate situation and sure she hasn’t exactly brought us good fortune but there hasn’t been enough time for that. And Orga must have seen she had potential to help us otherwise why would he have bothered bringing her on board? So I’m not really anything to do with it. Right? We should help, because we’re good people.  _

He reflected on Orga’s proposed course of action and his role. After the delay, anyway. They had to put distance between them and Gjallarhorn first, pretend like everything was getting back to normal. But once the wait was over, then it was time for him to choose whether to do something stupid. To try for the long shot. The fact that Orga was trusting it to him...it was basically like giving him a chance to go after what he wanted. If he wanted it.

Eugene realized he’d been staring out into the middle distance. He blinked dry itchy eyes and his gaze dropped down to his lap. He lifted the suit and laid it across his lap and the bed either side of him, resumed feeling its length and the details of its stitching. Yet again he felt like an idiot but he couldn’t help touching it. It was as though he could somehow communicate with her through it, or at least reassure her. Of course there was also the titillation of the idea that he was touching where her bare skin had been. He felt his face flush and cleared his throat, looked away, let his hands fall still for a moment. To test his rationality he looked at the needles more closely. They were around an inch long, but after peering at them he noticed that there were two tiny scores around their circumference.

_ Like they were meant to retract. That must have hurt like hell each time. And Shino said she had another huge-ass needle stick into her brainstem? Ugh.  _

He looked at the collar, the part of the suit that would be closest to the site of this awful image. The front and sides would have come halfway up her neck --

_ Or a bit lower. Her neck’s kinda long, he remembered.  _

\-- but then it tapered up at the back like a tongue, pierced by a metal grommet about an inch in diameter. The metal was scratched and dull and worn around the inside circumference, which had several holes at regular intervals that he could barely guess the purpose of. He ran his thumb over it and a shiver ran down his spine.

_ That big needle probably passed through here.  _ He raised one hand up to the back of his own neck, felt the whiskers there. Though it ultimately wasn’t much different, it made him cringe more.

On the lower edge of the collar, though, was a metal catch of some kind like that on a watch. It was so dull in color it almost escaped notice, and he guessed that it would have sat just above her collarbone. He laid a finger on it gently like he was expecting to feel her pulse. Denial surged back in the form of more tinkering, more examination. With some fiddling, he undid the clasp. A small zap of an electric shock had him yelping and jumping up, dropping the suit to the floor. He rang his tingling hand and peered at the suit -- the needles had retracted.

“Everything about her has to have a sting, doesn’t it,” he grumbled and picked the suit back up. Looking closer, the needles had practically vanished and he only felt them as nubs in the fabric. He held it out by the shoulders in front of him.  _ Hopefully the electric shock isn’t a regular thing for disengaging otherwise why in the world would she willingly pilot? Must be a malfunction. Age an’ all. Maybe Shino can fix it.  _

Holding the suit out like this, he was reminded of Artima’s build, her height. About the same as him, which he hadn’t really noticed before. He’d been busy listening. Of course initially there’d been the drooling but oddly it hadn’t lasted long. How could anybody care about her ass when she had a backstory like that? And now that he’d heard it he couldn’t stop hearing it, echoing around in his head like some awful but compelling song. At least, what he thought it was like -- there hadn’t been much music anywhere they’d gone.

_ She’s like music, _ he thought.  _ Something I haven’t encountered before but I just know is amazing and good, that makes me want to  _ move _. Does that mean this is different than how I’d feel about other women? Out on the turret that night, and in the museum -- I just wanted to make her happy. _

He was surprised by the ache that opened up in his chest. He’d been stifling it ever since they left Earth but he’d forced himself not to think about it. There was a job to do, after all. She was a job, he tried to tell himself, distance himself again. 

_ I could just go get her back for Tekkadan’s sake. We could use another pilot and Gundam if we’re going to keep the foothold on Mars. It’d be nothing to do with me. Or, I could tell Orga no, what I feel is just a flash in the pan, and he’d let her go. That’d be safer, easier. But… _ he thought of her looking at him with those tired, sad, knowing eyes, the way she truly seemed to  _ see _ him and how strange and wonderful that felt. Who’d ever looked at him like that? Would anyone else, ever? He sat back down, still holding onto the suit. “Shit.”

 

* * *

 

 

Dr Isaacson hadn’t been able to stop them. Artima didn’t blame him, though. Admittedly the fact that they’d allowed him to come along as a sort of ‘attending physician’ was mildly reassuring, even though the bizarre pneumonia-like thing he’d deliberately saddled her with meant that even not slouching in the wheelchair they’d put her in was difficult. 

_ At least I’ll see Kheree again, _ she thought, wincing at the lights overhead. The footsteps of the two guards and of Dr Isaacson behind her felt unnaturally loud, the journey from the infirmary unnecessarily long and every slight bump making her muscles ache or making her cough. She’d never been a good patient when it came to everyday illnesses and wondered whether torture would have, in fact, been preferable. She recalled the one time, not long after their arrival and installment on Earth in Nouveau, that she and Taki had gotten sick at the same time with a stomach virus. Their immune systems hadn’t acclimatized to the petri dish of a public school and made them easy targets. Neither was good at dealing with it. She smiled weakly, remembering the miserable bonding experience of being too weak to object to sharing their one toilet to vomit in. Strange that she could call that ‘the good old days’, now.

They stopped, and one of the guards removed his glove in order to open the large door in front of them using a handprint scan. A  _ bleep _ , and the door slid open to reveal a large, brightly-lit sterile hangar with Kheree upright in a brace, being attended to by mechanics on scaffolding and cranes. Artima felt part of her soften, be comforted. Though they were wheeling her quickly in Kheree’s direction and she knew what awaited her wasn’t good, she nevertheless wanted to get out of the chair and run to her. 

McGillis was at the top of the brace -- though small from this distance, she’d never mistake him anywhere, she felt. The four of them got into the service elevator alongside the brace and headed upward; Artima’s eyes settled on the iridescent, newly-waxed paint of Kheree’s entire length until they got to the top, and the view was interrupted by McGillis, more guards, a technician. Everything was muffled, even his sharp words and instructions. She didn’t bother to focus -- it’d make her look sicker, which was desirable. 

The two guards with McGillis lifted her from the wheelchair and dragged her toward Kheree; she thought she heard Dr Isaacson objecting. Then one of the guards and the technician were manhandling her into Kheree’s cockpit, dropping her onto its smooth floor. She could feel the hum of the machine in her bones. The technician forced her head forward with a fistful of hair off the back of her neck. Artima braced herself, felt the needle rest against the base of her skull. Out of habit she deliberately dissociated from the moment and practically threw her consciousness elsewhere to avoid the sensation of what was sure to be painful guesswork on the technician’s part.

_ Taki’s favorite animal was a giraffe -- she liked how goofy they looked. Her favorite color was green. She could eat a whole pizza in one sitting and would go running immediately after to work it off. She’d broken pretty much every bone in her body by the time I met her. She was terrible at poker. The only cosmetic you could get her to wear was this brand of lipbalm that smelled like watermelon. We wore the same shoe size -- 7 ½. She drank her coffee -- _

The spike of pain exploded into shadow consuming her peripheries, running as a solid thing under her jaw and over her crown and across her face -- the helmet. Her vision went dark. Though the sensation could never be complete without the suit, for the first time in over four hundred years she felt Kheree’s true presence inside her, like a ghost slipping into her body. As ever she wasn’t sure whether it wasn’t  _ her _ ghost slipping out of  _ her _ body into Kheree’s. She could feel adrenaline pumping through her -- gratefulness and love but also fear and loathing. Diagnostics flashed in front of her, and coaxed her vision back into focus; she could feel the pinpricks of pain at the various spots the mechanics were working on. The data in front of her scrambled, trying to reboot and recover from its last run while simultaneously rejecting a foreign connection -- the technician trying to observe from the outside, no doubt. Kheree was panicking. Artima tried to keep calm as a way of soothing her. 

“Ssh, I’m here,” she whispered, or thought she did. Maybe it was Kheree.

The data guttered into replaying old footage from Kheree’s many nodular cameras. It took Artima a moment to recognize it, and there was no sound: it was the fight with what turned out to be Adagio suits, by the observatory on the  coast. She both saw and felt the EMP beam crash into her from the canon that’d risen out of the observatory, saw Kheree fall out of the sky onto the shore. The camera then had a gap of blackness -- both she and Kheree had been unconscious. But then, to her surprise, Kheree came back online and the footage resumed -- Heero landing on the shore in his commandeered suit, even while the fight continued. Him opening the cockpit and climbing in to try to disentangle her. She vaguely remembered coming to in order to tell him how to remove the helmet and retract the needles from her suit. He’d lifted away her shattered inner visor and gently blown the minute shards of glass away from her eyes. She saw her body go limp. Taki and Duo soon joined him; Taki had got her out of the suit after a rather amusing push-and-shove to get Heero back outside, and dressed her in her spare change of clothes. Taki had held her forehead against her, sniffing loudly and breathing deeply for a moment, before getting Heero and Duo to help pull her out. The footage began to replay.

“Hey, ‘Tima.”

Artima came to full, painful attention. Staggered with and over the top of the footage was new footage she’d never seen before -- Taki, laying on her back in Kheree’s cockpit with her legs raised and rested against the wall, eating an orange. She was wearing her fatigue pants and combat vest over her green novelty shirt that had a kitten with a speechbubble reading ‘Fuck’. Her head had been bleeding, but she was smiling.

“Betcha didn’t expect this, huh?”

_ No, _ Artima felt her throat constrict.

“Listen -- and don’t hate me, or him, but -- Heero told me what he has planned. He asked for my blessing, if you can believe it. I told him if he had any way to make you better to take it. That’s why Duo and I took Kheree from you.” Her face grew sad. “You were real sick, ‘Tima. I couldn’t stand it anymore. You wouldn’t come out of here,” she gestured around her. “There was barely anything of you left.” She ate a couple of orange segments thoughtfully. The footage of the fall began to replay through her. “I feel kinda weird doing this --”

_ You shouldn’t. You were always speaking to the future -- future you, or future me, _ Artima thought as she remembered the note Taki wrote to herself on Artima’s medicine box.

“-- but why not. If -- when you wake up, I…” the hand that held the orange dropped to her stomach and she looked as though she might cry. She pushed her free hand into her bright hair and held it there. “I tried my best, okay? I know I wasn’t good at some things -- just like you were shitty at some things, frankly -- but I really tried. I wanted to do my best for you. So, if my best involves letting Heero freeze you in some kind of time capsule until there’s a way to make you better, and hiding Kheree until you’re ready to find that balance of you and her, then that’s what I’ll do.” She wiped furiously at one green eye with the heel of her hand. “I just wish I could see you when you wake up. I miss you.” She tried for a smirk, “But Heero says Doctor J’s only got one of those things, so…” She looked at her orange, then seemed to decide against eating more of it. “Toki told me about this place called Shedao Island. He says there’s a shitton of pitvipers that live there but they only get to eat twice a year when birds that’re migrating pass through. I don’t know why but, it made me think of you and Kheree. Maybe this life, this go round, was just the first time you eat. And when you wake up, it’ll be the second time. I dunno.”

Taki sat up but tilted her head back to continue looking at the camera in the ceiling. The replaying footage made her hard to see and Artima wished she could get closer to better see her best friend’s face.

“Promise me something, okay? Make that second meal a good one. Stop starving yourself. heh, get off Shedao Island if you can, I guess. Those six years were the best of my life. I’d always wanted a sister. Remember me smiling, okay?” She pressed two fingers to her lips and then raised them to the camera. “I love you.” She abandoned the orange and fished out a remote of some kind from her pocket, but before she clicked a button she quickly said, “And stop smoking! Stupid bitch.” She was turning away -- hiding her face -- her voice choked, “Okay gotta go turn Komori into a fireworks display love you bye.” The camera was turned off. 

Artima wished she could be certain that tears were rolling down her face.  _ I didn’t deserve you. _


	17. Haze

**Chapter 17: Haze**

 

Over the past few days -- maybe it was more, maybe it was less, she couldn’t really tell -- Artima had deduced that the enforced hookups to Kheree were in order to properly study Kheree and the Viper Construct and, presumably, assist with the development of a new pilot suit for some other pilot. It was also of interest to her, through the clouds of psychological disorientation and the sickness dragging through her, that these sessions did not seem to be an order from McGillis. Aside from the first instance, he had been absent, and the technician -- one Mr Redstone -- was showing greater and greater autonomy. With that autonomy, however, Mr Redstone had also shown greater and greater disregard for his human relay device and the limitations of his neuroscience knowledge.

They only used one guard to escort her, now, and had dispensed with the wheelchair since they only needed to get her from the cockpit to the elevator, and from the bottom of the elevator to the storage area off the main bay they now kept her in, which was little larger than a walk-in closet. They’d recently separated her from Dr Isaacson’s care apart from a twice-daily visit for a diagnostic, probably suspecting fraternization. While the proximity to Kheree was useful, she did not yet have the strength to act on it; not only was the pseudo-pneumonia taking its time to clear up, but the residual pain leftover from the surgery on her uterus came and went with the ebb and flow of the painkillers. Not to mention food and water hadn’t been more than an afterthought here. She could perhaps deal with all of these things had her mind and nervous system not been racked by constant and haphazard immersion and disconnection.

The guard slumped her in the middle of her closet. She did not move and, as they had the last couple of days, did not bother to even close the sliding door. Her cheek against the cold metal floor, she watched his reflection grow smaller and fuzzier as he moved away and tucked himself around the corner, waiting for the signal that she was needed again. The hospital gown she’d worn ever since that first immersion, now soft with sweat, was too thin to stop the cold from reaching the rest of her body but it was refreshing after being in the overheating cockpit for too long.

_ At least we can do that, _ she thought. Her tired eyes rose to fix on the dark profile of Kheree framed in the doorway.  _ Their time is limited by how much you and I can take, before we overload. And we’re both out of practice. _

In the prime of her piloting, her best immersion would have three hours of ninety-eight-percent effectiveness, with a manageable and short recovery period. When her Ryker’s Disease was at its worst, right before Taki and the others forcibly took Kheree away and stopped her piloting, she was at twenty hours of seventy-six-percent effectiveness with what should have been a long, almost impossible recovery period -- but there was no need for a recovery period if you never truly disconnected. 

_ But I did, eventually, and I was ruined. _ She thought again of the jumbled memories of Heero bringing her to that cryogenesis bay, now kaleidoscoped with Kheree’s recorded diagnostics of their mutual performance while the disease waged war.  _ Things haven’t changed, even with Ryker’s Disease being gone, even with the second chance. I should have died when -- _

A shadow fell across her, but she didn’t feel like lifting herself up. Through the floor she could hear the  _ clunk _ of the guard’s step as he saluted. She’d barely finished processing this when a pack of cigarettes was held out to her in a white-gloved hand -- she traced the blue-sleeved arm upward to see McGillis crouching beside her, his face not quite sympathetic but not devious either. 

She didn’t feel like sarcasm, or pride. She felt like a junkie for anything that’d offer some kind of succour. So she reached out, pulled back the top flap, slid one out with a fingertip bloody from digging her nails into her skin. There was no sign of a lighter as she rolled onto her back and slotted it in her dry mouth -- even that small motion was comforting -- and thought about just eating it, but then there was the familiar _ fwip _ and  _ hiss _ , and the little flame hovered in front of her face like a firefly. Eyes hooded, she held the cigarette steady, let him light in for her. She took in a deep inhale and held it for as long as she could. It was even the kind she preferred, and was surprised that they still existed much less that he had determined that about her and been able to procure them. Not that she was going to comment on it. The flame retreated.

“Perhaps this is delayed, but I’ve come to apologize for my approach.”

Artima made a game of holding the cigarette delicately between her teeth and softly expelling the smoke through her half-amused snarl. 

“I’ve also decided to be upfront with you about --”

“How long?”

“Hm?”

“How long have I been here?”

“A week and two days.”

Artima stared at the smoke disappearing into the dark of the ceiling. Her arm was heavy as she lifted it to notch the cigarette between her knuckles. Although the information was surprising, she saw no reason for him to lie.

He sighed, then said, “The hookups with the Khort Mogoi will stop, as a gesture of my goodwill. However, you should know that ultimately you and I -- along with Tekkadan -- are on the same side. While it will be your choice whether you return to that Gundam, it would make sense for you to return to what you know. You feel lost, don’t you?”

She refused to answer that, or look at him. Maybe he wasn’t even there and she was refusing to answer a hallucination. Instead, she said, “And if I don’t pilot for you?” Noticing the first wave of the nicotine -- or whatever it was nowadays -- was passing, she took another drag.

“Then it will be given to another, and I will not be able to prevent it. At least she will always belong to you if you help me.” After a long moment of silence, she heard him place the lighter and pack of cigarettes on the floor and stand. “Think on it.”

 

* * *

 

_ (Two days later) _

 

When McGillis’ aide, Camice, came to escort her from Dr Isaacson and the convalescent wing she’d been returned to, Artima was reminded of that time that Mikazuki had escorted her to Orga. While McGillis had made good on his word to stop the hookups and she’d since been recovering well -- in no small part, admittedly, due to Dr Isaacson being supervised by another doctor and thus being prevented from prolonging her protective illness -- Artima still felt as though she moved in a haze of uncertain time. Her incredibly long past, scattershot present, and unpredictable but potentially very short future seemed to switch places every hour in her mind’s eye. Each time someone had entered the room she’d thought it was finally time to die. Only the fact that she’d been told to dress in her mended clothes told her this was any different from imaginings or memories.

Camice brought her to McGillis’ office, neither speaking to the other on the way. McGillis himself was beside his desk, which stood in a carpeted room that held little else. One of the expansive windows over the sea was shaded by a holographic monitor playing footage, and it was to this his attention was turned. 

“Sir,” Camice announced them.

McGillis was already turning. He addressed Artima with the same expression he’d had the last time she saw him -- oddly neutral. “I’d wanted to give you longer to recover, but this is an urgent matter.”

Artima peered at the silent footage on the monitor as they drew closer -- it appeared to be an excavation of some kind, and the primarily salmon-colored dirt made her wonder where this was. Here and there were glimpses of a mercury-white metal. 

“Considering our last conversation, you’ll no doubt think this contrived. I assure you it’s pure coincidence,” he continued. “Tekkadan have reached Mars by now of course. More importantly, it seems they’re in the process of unearthing not only another Gundam frame, but what they have yet to realize is a Mobile Armor.” He walked stepped over to the monitor and touched it at the edges; the footage began to replay, this time with sound. He watched her, watched the information sinking in. “You and I both know what that means.”

The familiar voices among the roar of machinery, shifting earth, and exploding rock. Simultaneously all of their faces emerging from the haze of the past two weeks, coming and going like glimpses of the sky through the dust on the monitor in front of her. Artima hadn’t realized somewhere along the way she’d given up on seeing any of them again, until now. Suddenly, rather than a lifetime ago it felt like only yesterday she was watching the boys working in the hangar and begging her for stories. Equally, rather than only yesterday, it now felt like a lifetime ago that any of her life with Taki had happened. She wanted badly for one of them to be the truth, the present, but felt incapable of choosing.

“It will only take me a push of a button to call Orga and tell him to stop the excavation,” McGillis said into her silence, “which I will, if you agree to fight for us both.” He was walking away from the monitor toward her. “Is it really so hard of a choice? Either that Mobile Armor awakens -- which it certainly will if it’s disturbed further -- and the terrifying, cold, lethal legacy of the Komori resurrects and rips Tekkadan apart…” he stopped in front of her, “...or, it’s you -- your legacy -- that resurrects, if you reclaim what’s rightfully yours -- this time with even greater glory now that you’re not crippled by illness. All you have to do is choose to come out of the shadows, and do what you were born to do.”

Artima held his gaze. It would, after all, be nice to go back to what was known, what gave her life. It would be nice to be given a way forward -- a way out of the shadows, or perhaps further in. What was the difference at this point?

_ Tell them to stop, come back to me, _ she heard herself, or Kheree, instruct.

“Tell them to stop,” she uttered. “Give me back.” She frowned at the floor, confused and disappointed by her own words.

McGillis smiled at last, put his hands behind his back. His head tipped to one side. “Kheree?” he supplied half-curiously, perhaps thinking she’d not finished her thought.

“Yes,” she said, looking up as though responding to her name.

But McGillis was moving away to the monitor, and Camice was voicing an assumption about heading for Mars within the hour.

_ Clarity will come,  _ she and Kheree promised themselves.

 

* * *

 

Eugene fumbled with the buttons of his shirt; the adrenaline and excitement over having finally made a decision, and this being the day he’d act on it, was making him clumsy. His knuckles brushed over Artima’s suit that -- with some help from Shino, Yagami, and Merribit -- he wore underneath his clothes. He draped his tie over his shoulders, checked the time -- rendezvous with the ship that’d take him to Vingolf was in just under an hour.

_ Gonna be really weird pretending to have deserted,  _ he thought, recalling the plan he’d discussed with Orga as he left the room to go find him, tell him he was about to leave.  _ And guess we have to trust to luck that she’s still in Vingolf, otherwise it might take me forever to find her. _

As Eugene rounded a corner one of the younger boys ran into him and nearly bowled him over. “Sir!”

Eugene was about to correct the formality but stopped himself when he saw the look of urgency on the boy’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“Sir, Mr Orga sent me to find you -- says you can’t leave. Something’s happened in the Saisei’s main hangar, with those -- those things we dug up.”

“Where is he?” They were already running.  _ Sorry, Artima, I’m going to be even later than I thought. But it’s no good if I don’t have anything to bring you back to. _

 

* * *

 

_ (Two weeks later) _

 

Julieta resented the fact that she was forced to walk by the Khort Mogoi every time she had to go to or return from her Reginlaze. This foreign antique had recently been installed here alongside hers; Rustal had been vague in his explanations that the Khort Mogoi  -- and now its equally antique pilot -- would soon be recognized as an addition to Gjallarhorn’s forces, and that this installation was helping the naturalization of it for the troops. She was fully aware that she was included in that category. What she was not clear on, however, were the particulars. 

Initially, Rustal had spoken of acquiring the Khort Mogoi and learning its secrets, reconstructing its pilot suit, with the intention of giving it to her. Although skeptical, Julieta was perfectly willing as always to do what her commander thought best. However, with the bizarre and inexplicable arrival -- and furthermore switch of loyalty, it seemed -- of the pilot, those plans had changed. Instead Julieta had been promised the compromise of an upgrade to the Reginlaze but that had yet to materialize, and in the meantime she had to walk by the reminder every day. 

_ I was just getting curious about the idea -- maybe even liking it -- and they take it away. _ She stopped in front of the Gundam in question, folding her arms and looking up at it. It was like a burnt skeleton in comparison to the other frames in the hangar.  _ And for what? So they can play around with some old tech, hope for the best from some trash of questionable loyalty they picked up? If it wouldn’t affect Commander Rustal I’d hope the whole thing blows up in their faces. But it doesn’t make sense why Commander Rustal is endorsing it at all… _

Julieta’s gaze came into abrupt focus when she realized that something was staring back at her.

_ No, some _ one _ , _ she corrected herself, but it didn’t quite fit either. 

The pilot was perched on the shoulder of the Khort Mogoi like a vulture -- her black clothing and hair helped her blend in with the frame. Her face was expressionless, and a lit cigarette was held in a long hand hanging laxly off one knee. The fact that Julieta couldn’t remember her name further dehumanized her.

_ They’re letting  _ this _ around here unsupervised, now? _ Julieta looked around her to be sure. No one.  _ She’s only been here for maybe three weeks tops. What’s going on?  _ The pilot practically slid off the Khort Mogoi like a snake into the half-gravity and floated toward her. Julieta, determined not to show the inexplicable and unfamiliar anxiety that was starting to gnaw at her, dropped her hands to her sides and adopted a stern expression. She also had the equally inexplicable feeling that the pilot wasn’t going to speak and so she hurried to comment, “Smoking cigarettes? How primitive.”

Instead of standing on the other side of the handrail, the pilot perched on it too in the same fashion as she’d done with her Gundam, back to a bird of prey. Shreds of smoke were curling out of the tiniest of parts in her mouth, forming a haze in front of her face like a veil. Her eyes were sharp, however -- this close Julieta could see that there was something off about the unblinking gaze fixed on her own. It reminded her of Barbatos and its defeat the Hashmal that she’d seen just under two weeks ago; it made the pilot as ageless as those frames and the one behind her like a cast shadow. Made her The Pilot, not just a pilot. Something abstract out of the nightmares she’d had as a child that had prompted her career to confront them. 

“What do you want?” Julieta asked.

“Same question,” the pilot replied, but her tone managed to suggest a reframing, a deepening of the question. 

Julieta went on her way to disguise her shiver. “Nothing,” she sniped, and refused to label it a lie.


	18. Agency

**Chapter 18: Agency**

 

_ (Two weeks later) _

 

Orga simultaneously felt a weight lift from his shoulders at the news that McMurdo would not be breaking his  _ sakazuki _ cup anytime soon -- but also that a new weight had been placed on them instead. He turned to leave and resume bearing it alone.

“One more thing,” McMurdo said.

He stopped at the office door.

“Naze told me about the Khort Mogoi and its pilot -- that both were confiscated by Gjallarhorn about a month and a half ago.”

Orga felt himself grow hot under the collar again. Where was this going? Did he approve? Disapprove? Sure it hadn’t exactly been the goal to not tell McMurdo anything or even not tell Naze everything, but was that still wise? 

He was relieved when McMurdo, bonsai shears in hand, gave a relaxed smile. “Your business is your business, ultimately, but things could have worked out better for you had I known. I get the impression that something with great potential was lost.”

“Not for long, Boss,” Orga ventured.

McMurdo looked at him for a long while without speaking, then turned away to put the shears in the leather roll-up pouch he kept them in. “Think good and hard about that. A lot can happen in a month. It may no longer be worth the risk -- particularly on fragile ground as you are -- even if it was worth it in the beginning.”

“You seem to have decided Tekkadan is still worth the risk,” Orga ventured again, though he wasn’t wholly sure why he was defending his decision and by association, Artima. 

“As have you.” McMurdo paused to let this sink in, and concluded, “Take the advice of someone who has been in my position for a long time: be careful when something runs the risk of equaling or toppling what you prize most.”

Though it was perhaps a push too far, Orga admitted, “Would you believe me if I said it was someone else’s choice?” He thought of Eugene, probably entering Earth space at this very moment.

“No.”

 

* * *

 

“I wish times were simpler, Julieta, and we’re working toward that goal, but in the meantime we must accept the reality of having to deal with those who are misguided,” said Rustal, “if not outmanoeuvre them.”

“McGillis,” she said under her breath. 

Rustal hummed in agreement. “So you see, none of this is to offend or deceive you. I simply had to move quickly.”

“I understand.”

“Never underestimate the ambition of a slighted man. We see that he failed to receive an Order of the Seven Stars for the incident with the Hashmal -- his movements in recent days with Wei suggest that he is keeping her for some future use, perhaps as a new means to achieve the Order if she is used in a sacrificial manner.”

“That seems wasteful,” Julieta admitted, no matter how much the other pilot discomfited her.

“Indeed. Granted, should that situation arise it could also be -- coincidentally -- a way for you to earn the same honor, but in the meantime I must focus my efforts on stopping him from using Wei for his own ends, which as we’ve known for some time are diverting from those of Gjallarhorn.”

“So that’s why you’re keeping her very visible, really?”

Rustal smiled at her. “It’s a subtle way to undermine a man’s agency. You can’t reveal what isn’t hidden -- nor can you use what grows farther and farther out of reach.”

 

* * *

 

McGillis kept a serene gaze over the inner city of Vingolf as the aide relayed the latest status report of the Khort Mogoi investigations. He watched the organic curves of the buildings develop a reddish glow from the setting sun, latticed with shadows that contained the pinpricks of artificial blue light. He was due to meet Almiria for dinner in an hour, as she’d insisted on a night out of sorts and he was willing to indulge her. In the meantime, there was no reason he couldn’t tie up loose ends of the day’s work over his aperitif -- he refrained from drinking alcohol when his fiancee was present but current events meant he couldn’t forgo it altogether. He took another sip of the herby vintage vermouth, brought his thoughts back to the aide rather than the botched mission to obtain an Order of the Seven Stars.

“...we have at least determined that the Khort Mogoi’s helmet is not a separate article, but in fact is constructed from the ‘stem’, as it were.” She swiped through a couple of images on her tablet, turned it, and handed it to him to show him what she meant. “Only when it detects the pilot suit, however, so we’ve yet to see this in action.”

McGillis peered at the images, decided there wasn’t much point to it at present, and handed the tablet back. He was about to dismiss her when he remembered something else. “Any progress on that locked file Mr Redstone encountered, out of curiosity?”

One corner of her mouth hooked up as she grinned briefly to herself, “Ah, he calls it the ‘Touch File’.” When she noticed McGillis’ inquisitive glance, she put away her private amusement and elaborated, “All he can see is the file name -- ‘Touch’ -- and size, but it’s proved strangely uncrackable. That said, he says the file is so small that it can’t be anything significant. Probably a glitch.”

McGillis sipped his vermouth, let it rest on his tongue for a moment before swallowing. “I trust his judgement. Very good, then. Anything else?”

“No, Sir.”

“Thank you. Dismissed.”

No sooner had the aide left when Camice joined him on the balcony. “Sir.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve received word that one of the Tekkadan members has arrived at immigration. Details are forthcoming, but he supposedly said something about parting ways.”

The glass stopped halfway on its return journey to McGillis’ mouth. He was truly surprised. During their time on Mars no one from Tekkadan had shown the slightest sign that something like this was brewing -- not that there’d been time, of course, with the eruption of the Hashmal and Pluma. As a result he was skeptical. “Do we know who?”

“If I’m remembering correctly, it’s the deputy -- Sevenstark.”

_ This doesn’t make sense. I doubt it’s a genuine defection but if it isn’t, then it’d have to be for Wei. He did seem interested in her wellbeing during the negotiations. Yet even that doesn’t make sense -- for one he’d have to come to me in order to pick up her trail, but moreover I still remain allied with Tekkadan. Why would they want her back from their ally? And, moreover, send just one man? _

He’d hoped in part that Artima would try to escape while he was away at Mars -- for various reasons -- but the drug-induced submissiveness and dependency, courtesy of a blackmailed Dr Isaacson, seemed to have worked too well. Was she loyal to him and Tekkadan, or to Gjallarhorn? Rustal had been surprisingly lenient about her arrival, reinstatement, and freedoms after all. How much agency did she retain?

“Sir?” Camice prompted.

McGillis was brought back to the issue at hand. He sighed. Things were getting unnecessarily complicated, in his opinion. “Keep an eye on him but don’t interfere with his movements. Let’s see what he does.” He downed the last bitter dregs of the vermouth without class, and felt the better for it.

 

* * *

 

Eugene had been under radio silence ever since he’d left Mars aboard one of Teiwaz’s affiliate vessels. Beforehand, as arranged Orga had privately informed McMurdo that should word reach him of Eugene traveling alone to Earth space, that it was deliberate and nothing to be concerned over -- everyone else, however, had been kept in the dark. They didn’t want to run the risk of Gjallarhorn tracing crewmembers and having them give up the truth about his intentions.

Beyond these preparations, Orga had been hands-off. Eugene had managed to push away the nerves of working independently for the first time in his life during the journey here, but now that he was under the third hour of scrutiny at Vingolf border control they’d started eating at him. There was only so much to distract him in the ten-by-ten ‘interview’ room that he’d been told to wait in. Between the expected initial questioning, followed by a strangely short, deeper round, there’d been no visits in two hours. 

_ I’m pretty sure I’ve made it clear that I’ve defected, _ Eugene thought as he stared up at the ceiling from his slouched position in the single chair.  _ I guess they’re telling the higher-ups. Probably McGillis. All I can do is lie harder. If they do a full-body search I’m done for.  _

He righted himself when the frosted door clicked open and the same immigration attendant from before -- a balding guy that looked tired but content -- entered halfway, smiled wider. “Sorry for the wait, Mr Sevenstark. You’re free to go.”

Eugene raised an eyebrow, but didn’t object. “Thanks,” he said, standing and rounding the table.

“No problem. Here’s your papers should you need them later,” the attendant continued cheerily, “a copy of your visa, a visitor’s pamphlet, and -- for the inconvenience -- a voucher for the onsite cafe.” He handed them over, and stood aside. “You can reclaim your belongings at the front desk. Enjoy your stay.”

Eugene pocketed the materials -- he’d acquired a logoless jacket back on Mars, for effect -- and retraced his steps through the tiny warren of the interview offices, reclaimed his gun, belt, and wallet, and re-entered the flow of other travelers out in the fresher, cooler air. Only once he was outside the port terminal did he pause and look around at the neon-lit night sky and the sculpted towers of the city.

_ That didn’t make sense at all, _ Eugene glanced back at the sliding doors of the terminal, the silhouettes moving inside its brightness.  _ Just cut me loose, no further questions? Ironically this makes it harder. How am I supposed to get anywhere near Artima if I’ve been marked as a harmless civilian? It has to be deliberate. Who does that to a defector from the enemy? It’s like you want spies on your ship-headquarters-island-thing. _

For lack of any other ideas, Eugene pulled out the visitor’s pamphlet. After all, he needed to find somewhere to rethink things that wasn’t in the loading zone of Arrivals. As he flicked through the glossy pages an old-fashioned, stiff business card fell onto the pavement. He picked it up. On the front was a sleek design of a city’s skyline silhouette, under which was ‘The Ledendecker’ and its street address and contact information, and the slogan ‘Supreme comfort at your home away from home.’. Oddly, the card looked old -- creased and re-smoothed, a watermark, the ink nearly worn away in a couple of places as though from being perpetually inserted and removed from a wallet. Oddest of all was what was written on the back in crisp blue, fresh script:

_ Go here and ask for Mme. Ledendecker. Suite 303. Await further instructions. _

As if on cue, a green car drew to a stop in front of him. Eugene frowned and quickly pocketed the card and pamphlet. Judging by the scrolling LED advertisements on the car’s sides and the illuminated holograph on its hood, it was a taxi-ing service of some kind. He’d heard such things existed from Merribit. The driver -- even more innocuous than the immigration attendant -- got out and greeted him, opened the kerbside back door for him.

“The Ledendecker, Sir?” the driver prompted when Eugene hadn’t moved.

“...Yeah,” he said, and reluctantly slipped into the leather interior.  _ What the hell is this? Is it McGillis after all? _ The driver shut the door and, shortly, slipped back behind the steering wheel and pulled away from the kerb. Eugene kept his hand on his gun but if the driver noticed, he didn’t say. 

“They have great oysters there,” the driver commented happily. “You should try them if you get the chance.”

He had no idea what an oyster was, and furthermore wondered if this was code of some kind that he’d miss as a result. “Is that so,” he replied to fill the silence. He thought about threatening the driver for more information but decided to see if all of this worked out in his favor first. No sense in causing a ruckus and hurting more people than was necessary. 

The drive took maybe ten minutes, tops, and was silent. The driver let him out without asking for payment and without comment, leaving him in front of the black polished stone facade of the Ledendecker. Eugene buttoned his jacket to help hide his gun from view and went through a pair of brass and glass doors that were opened by doormen in dark green uniforms rather than automatically. Inside the interior was the same glossy black stone of the facade on the floors and walls, but pristine cream upholstery on the lobby seating matched the veining in the stone while the shiny brass and warm wood of the desks and other furnishings lightened it up a little. There was a gently-cascading artificial waterfall behind the front desk immediately ahead of him, sparkling with light from a pair of antique crystal chandeliers overhead. Staff and guests -- the latter in either Gjallarhorn uniforms or eveningwear -- flowed across his vision and some kind of tinkling music came from a huge white instrument in one corner, where the player sat on a bench, hunched over it. 

Eugene stopped for a moment. _ Music, _ he suddenly realized. He wondered what the instrument was. It wasn’t bad, though it made him want to go to sleep. He carried on.

The lobby attendant was a young girl with her hair up in a bun and the same green uniform as the doormen. She smiled at him, though he didn’t miss the double-take of his clothing she gave him. “Good evening, Sir. How may I help?” He also didn’t miss that her brass nametag read ‘Holly Ledendecker’.

“Er,” he fished in his pocket, procured the card and slid it across the desk to her. “I’m here to see --”  _ Shit. _ He had no idea what ‘Mme.’ stood for. 

The girl’s smile quirked as she looked up from examining the card. “Madame Ledendecker,” she supplied. Her voice was calm as she continued, “Just a moment. She’s probably expecting you.”

_ Is this normal? _ Eugene wondered, watching her as she made a call. “Any relation?” he asked in the pause and nodded to her nametag.

“My grandmother,” her smile became more of a grimace, as though this were something she was often asked. “Nepotism is alive and well.” Her attention returned to the phone. “Hello? Yes. If you could tell Madame Ledendecker that Mr…?” she glanced at him.

“Sevenstark.” What good would it do to lie?

“Sevenstark is here.” A pause. “No. Right, I will.” She hung up, gave him back the card and gestured to her left, at the glass-walled elevator. “Suite 303 is on the eighth floor, off the rooftop courtyard. There’s only four suites up there so you shouldn’t have any trouble finding it.”

The eighth floor had dark wood-paneled walls and cream carpet in contrast to the lobby, but the brass fixtures remained. Hidden ceiling lighting was low, ambient. The elevator had opened onto a hall that ran in a square around a glass-enclosed, dark and empty garden courtyard with its own glass roof offering a view of the night sky. A seating area was directly opposite him on the other side of the courtyard, while two suites were on the remaining two sides of the square. Cautious of the quiet, Eugene went right at a sign’s indication. 

_ Top floor, then. And the elevator had stopped at the seventh initially -- there wasn’t any button for the eighth -- so that means someone had to authorize it to continue up. Probably monitored so I won’t get back down without being noticed either. _

The door for Suite 303 -- the first one he came to -- was unlocked, and he checked his surroundings before cautiously entering this, too. Motion-sensing ambient light switched on at his presence. The suite was luxurious, modernly-furnished, and no one was waiting for him -- not even this Madame Ledendecker. 

The door closed behind him with a  _ clunk _ , and locked with a quick _ whir _ and  _ click _ . 

_ Suppose I should have expected that, _ he thought, giving up on trying to open it. He set about checking the room for anything suspicious, including not trying the plate of fresh fruit left on a glass table in front of the panoramic window despite his hunger.  _ Guess I have no choice but to wait like the card said. _


	19. Far-Flung

**Chapter 19: Far-Flung**

 

Dr Isaacson entered the room that had been devoted to keeping Artima, despite her improved health and apparent redaction of criminal status. He assumed that Gjallarhorn weren’t sure what to do with her but he was in no position to question them. He closed the door behind him and the room was plunged back into darkness. Despite this darkness, however, he knew she would be awake -- lately she was always awake and he couldn’t pin that on the drugs he’d been administering, nor on the lighter and lighter doses and placebos. And lately she seemed to stay in the dark whenever possible as though wanting to control when and how she was seen.

She’d dragged the end table over to the window so she could sit on it and look out over one of Vingolf’s aft wings and the Pacific -- itself more darkness. She did not look over to him and he wished she would -- though their relationship seemed to have grown closer with a greater knowing of the other, ironically she was less and less trusting as that knowledge had increased and with it, he had grown even warier of her than when she had arrived. He often wondered if she knew what he had been asked to do. She was a medic, after all -- such suspicions wouldn’t be beyond her. He wished she would say something and release him from the ruse, so that he wouldn’t feel so alone in his burdens. Maybe it would even release her from some of her own, which he detected were growing toxic.

_ “I need you to keep Miss Wei compliant, Dr Isaacson, and I trust you know how to do so,” _ he remembered McGillis telling him nearly a week ago.  _ “I know you prolonged her illness in order to keep her safe from me, but you should know that she and I have come to an agreement and are now working toward the same goal. This goal can, of course, benefit you, but only if you do as I tell you. And this goal will come to nothing if Miss Wei deviates from the course I have set for her.” _

_ “And if I choose not to?” _

_ “Then I will be paying Holly a visit.” A harsh laugh. “You needn’t give me that ethics speech. This too is ethical -- wouldn’t you say? To work toward the greater good.” _

Dr Isaacson was called back to the present by Artima’s smooth voice. “Did you find anything?”

He swallowed, came forward. “A couple of things.” He thought about asking for permission to turn on the light but then reminded himself of who he was, and turned on the standard lamp beside the bed. A transparent wallet marked ‘EVIDENCE’ was pulled out of his labcoat pocket and unfolded, opened, and its contents slipped out onto the bed. 

Artima unfolded herself from the table and joined him. 

“I’m not sure what I’m looking at,” he admitted. She had asked him to see if there had been anything on her person other than her suit when she was thawed from stasis, that they may have kept. He wasn’t entirely sure why she had asked but he wasn’t without connections -- in other departments and beyond -- and this hadn’t been too risky of a stretch. Perhaps it would help her state of mind.

He watched her reach out to the main object -- a thin smooth rectangle with a circular, flush dial and a small glass screen, to which was connected a coated wire that split in half and ended with two bud-like shapes. A nostalgic huff of laughter escaped her as if she’d forgotten he was there. “It plays music, that’s all.” And then to the second, which was a knotted, brown-crusted silver chain strung with two rings.

“Sentimental?” Dr Isaacson guessed.

She said nothing, only pocketed the music player and went to the tiny in-room sink to wash the necklace. 

Tiredly, Dr Isaacson sat on the bed and folded the plastic envelope again, tucked it away for later disposal. He listened to the gentle trickle of the water as he thought again of his predicament. “This should be your last round of antibiotics,” he said. 

The water switched off. “And the sedatives?”

He closed his eyes, breathed a sigh of relief. There it was. Nonetheless, he took his time answering. “...Yes.” And what had been her tone? Would she be angry? How long had she known? Would she kill him? Should he defend himself? He thought of Holly -- it’d be her twenty-fifth birthday tomorrow.

Artima approached the outer edge of the circle of light cast by the lamp, but did not enter it. She was finishing drying the necklace with a paper towel. “You have more to say,” she said. It wasn’t a guess or a prompt -- more of a demand.

“I had no choice,” he looked at the floor.

“I gathered.”

“But I’ve been reducing the dosage without their knowledge. It’s practically sugar water at this point. So with that in mind...why are you still cooperating?” he asked, looking back up at her. Perhaps it was some far-flung wishful thinking leftover from childhood, but he’d always imagined this type of person would have miraculously had the means to escape by now. “Or is it that you’re still suffering from the miscarriage, psychologically?” Postpartum depression and the depths of other psychological conditions were not his expertise, but he was still aware of the possibility. Its effects could be making her more supplicant and vulnerable. 

“How could I grow attached to a child I did not know existed until it was gone?” she countered. “Didn’t know the father either and even if I did they’re long gone too. You’re asking me to mourn a bundle of cells. I’m not that type, doctor.” She threw the paper towel away and put on the necklace, slipped it down her shirt. Considering it could still be seen and would raise suspicion, Dr Isaacson began wondering about her intentions. “As for your first question,” she returned to her seat on the table by the window, “there’s benefits to playing along, as you know.”

He considered this, but wasn’t convinced. “You do not have collateral like I do. And,” he thought of what little he knew of her actions before she arrived at Vingolf, “surely you have people who would come --”

“They’re not coming for me. That promise has been broken,” she quickly said, silencing him. “No, there’s something else I’m here for -- things I can still learn.”

He couldn’t help but have his interest piqued. “What kinds of things?”

“It’s been bothering me why I was frozen in my suit.” She looked out over the sea. “Kheree was taken from me long before the day I was frozen. I would have been in other clothes. So why change me back into it? Why destroy the other three suits and not Kheree?” She seemed to be talking to herself now rather than to him. Her hand rose to her chest and the tiny bulge of the rings under her shirt. “Heero didn’t just do this for my health, and for what was left of the goodness of his heart. Kheree and I survived for some other reason.”

Dr Isaacson doubted that. Like his boyish imaginings moments ago, that line of reasoning was too far-flung. He felt pity for her. “It’s...natural to want to read a deeper meaning into what happens to us. I don’t blame you -- your life has been very unique -- but…”

“It’s not so much a deeper meaning as any meaning at all,” she said quietly -- again, almost to herself, as if she’d forgotten him. She turned this thought upside-down, however, by asking, “And your meaning -- your collateral. Who?”

“My daughter, Holly.”

“And you have no one who’d come for you.”

He thought of his mother-in-law. Holly was safely under her protection -- even if he couldn’t bring himself to take the chance -- but they’d cut ties with him long ago following his wife’s death. No, they would not come for him. 

At his telling silence, Artima said, “Then I will do my best to look out for you for however long I’m here.”

“And how long is that?”

“I don’t know.”

 

* * *

 

He was halfway through eating the fruit. So far so good. Judging by the clock above the electric fireplace, Eugene had been in Suite 303 for nearly an hour. The fruit had won against his hunger and his realization that he’d never had the fresh stuff before. He didn’t even know what any of them were called, as they didn’t look anything like the dry stuff you’d get on Mars, and they were all wonderful. After trying a piece of one of the pale orange slices that smelled especially nice, he’d waited a few minutes to see if he’d keeled over. When that didn’t happen, he’d tried a different type every five minutes or so, and done so slyly as if he was being watched. After half an hour, though, he’d managed to demolish half the platter and determined that the pale green slices -- which smelt similar to the first pale orange slice he’d had -- were his favorite.

He was just beginning to play with the fireplace settings when the door whirred unlocked and opened. Accompanied by a suited man the size of Nadi, an old woman of average height and a severe haircut to match her severe expression entered the room. She said nothing, barely paying attention to him as she moved to the glass table by the window and took one of the two high-backed seats. Her bodyguard stood behind her and averted his eyes. Only then did her own fall on Eugene, expectantly. 

“Are you cold?” she asked.

“Err…” Eugene gestured at the fireplace with an awkward smile, “No, I’ve just never --”  
“I meant your coat.”

Eugene stood to attention, flabbergasted. Was this some kind of breach of Earth protocol? Feeling like a chastised ten-year-old, he decided it was better to remove it rather than make up an explanation. The bodyguard took it from him and hung it up, then returned to his position. Neither he nor the woman seemed to care about Eugene’s gun. When she looked implicitly at the chair opposite her, he sat down.

Only then did she speak, her voice with a practiced politeness and warmth now that it seemed she’d determined he was worth it. “My apologies for the wait, Mr Sevenstark. I’m Madame Ledendecker.” She extended her hand, which he took. She eyed the half-finished fruit platter, “I see you enjoyed the fruit. If you’re hungry for something more substantial, we can have something sent up.” Without waiting for a response she asked, “Beef, chicken, or fish? Or vegetarian? Though you don’t look like one of those.”

His stomach rumbled at the thought of each and wouldn’t let him decline. “Beef, please.” He supposed that was most similar to the types of meat he’d had before. “What do I look like, then?” he asked with a crooked smile, trying to regain some footing.

“You look precisely like what you are -- a young space rat that doesn’t know enough about his surroundings to be allowed outside in them on his own,” she said without hesitation and sat back. At a gesture, her bodyguard slipped away to, presumably, call for the food. “You also have the misfortune of having become our first contact for the Black case.”

Eugene supposed he shouldn’t comment on her assessment. “I...what? Look, I’d really appreciate it if you could start with the basics and work your way up. Was it you who put that card in the pamphlet? How’d you know I’d show up? Why me?”

“Of course that wasn’t me personally -- it was one of my contacts in immigration. We’ve been monitoring affairs between Tekkadan and Gjallarhorn for some time, coincidentally, but --”

“Wait who’s ‘we’?”

“I’d appreciate it if you don’t interrupt, Mr Sevenstark. ‘We’ refers to myself and my fellow members of the Avrias Collective. Anyhow, the Avrias Collective -- like any organization or group of economic significance -- likes to keep tabs on military bodies and other factions that could affect its interests, so it should be of little surprise that we monitor Tekkadan.” She plucked a toothpick from a cup of them that he hadn’t noticed before in the center of the fruit, and chose a piece farthest away from where he’d been picking. “However, your relation to Tekkadan is not of interest. What  _ is _ of interest is what Tekkadan acquired and subsequently relinquished to Gjallarhorn.”

That could be only one -- well, two things. “The Khort Mogoi,” he said quietly, feeling on edge again. 

“And its resurrected pilot, Artima Wei, yes.” Madame Ledendecker seemed to decide against any more fruit and set her toothpick aside. She kept quiet as the bodyguard answered a knock at the door and returned shortly with a tray holding a pitcher of iced water and glasses. “This is something that Avrias never imagined to see, though we have a long-held vow to act on it that has become something akin to corporate policy. Private, of course.”

“You’re not making things clearer,” Eugene said and accepted a glass of the water. There were green slices of something else among the ice but he decided to chance it.

She took a sip of water, watched the ice move as she tipped her glass ever so slightly in thought. “Generations ago -- back in Miss Wei’s original day -- Avrias did not exist. Instead, its beginnings were in a much smaller guerilla group known as the Sweepers, of which her fellow pilot Duo Maxwell was one. Over the centuries the Sweepers profited through a series of good investments and acquisitions, growing from mere scavengers and scrap dealers to much more legitimate practices -- much in the way Tekkadan is doing -- and became the Avrias Collective. However, one of the things that has not changed has been the members’ obligation to Mr Maxwell, who was crucial to its survival when it was all but wiped out.”

“I remember that name, at least,” he offered, tried to be patient.

“We -- and I say ‘we’; this was long before my time -- agreed that should we ever, in the future, hear of the Khort Mogoi or Miss Wei surfacing that we are to make contact and bring her into our protection, or at least assist and defend. This item of policy has been known as the Black case, after the codename Mr Maxwell and Mr Yuy gave her during the initial days of Operation Nouveau. As you can imagine this has been seeming more and more whimsical as time marches on, and yet here we are.”

Eugene frowned. He was glad when another knock came at the door and his food arrived, to give him time to think. “But...why?”

“Whatever the reason was, it was not divulged -- at least not to me. I personally wonder whether Mr Maxwell himself knew. All I can assume is that there must have been some greater reason behind not destroying the Khort Mogoi like its contemporaries were, and furthermore keeping both pilot and pilot suit intact after so long.” She scratched at a mole on her chin. 

Eugene stabbed into a hunk of beef in a dark gravy. It smelled fantastic and the taste matched up -- it practically fell apart in his mouth. He stuffed in a couple more bites before he said, “I sure hope you’re going to tell me what all of this has to do with me.”

“Surely it’s obvious?”

Eugene looked up -- she did indeed seem perplexed.

“Do we not have the same goal? Or did you truly decide to join Gjallarhorn?” She sipped her water and placed it on the table with a click. “You are going to accomplish your mission of freeing Miss Wei from custody, and we are going to help you how we can.”

“And what’s in it for you?”

“I do not see the point in discussing that until the first stage is done successfully, though rest assured it is with our mutual best interests at heart. Besides, I will have to seek further guidance from Avrias’ Council even though I can make preemptive moves on their behalf -- which we will have to do, since I sense we are running out of time.”


	20. Pretense

**Chapter 20: Pretense**

 

_ (The next night) _

 

The office was, by design, dark for the night. Although he was one to prefer light wherever possible, tonight Orga needed the soothing balm it provided. He sat at his desk with his head in his hands and contemplated just sleeping for as long as he could, but he knew that wasn’t possible -- not only were there things to do, thoughts ran rampant as always. 

_ Naze...Amida...Lafter, _ he thought. Only today they’d destroyed Jasley’s ship and him with it, avenging Lafter. But avenging Amida and Naze...that was a different matter. Things felt emptier, colder.  _ This must be what loneliness feels like,  _ he thought. 

He’d never felt truly alone, but the further he took Tekkadan, the more demands he made of them and Mikazuki in particular, the more isolated he felt. He’d started to have inklings of that feeling when Eugene left, but now that the guiding influence of Naze was gone he felt like he had to constantly look over his shoulder, despite the fact that one of their enemies had been taken care of. 

_ I’m not alone, _ he tried to remind himself. The more he thought about it, though, the more brittle the reassurance. 

Artima came to mind, as if she and loneliness were now the same thing. He knew he’d never feel as lonely as she felt and yet he had more sympathy for her now. Eugene’s words -- that she wasn’t devious, just heartbroken -- came back to him. He’d been right. Of course he’d been sympathetic before and that had been the driving reason behind his release of Eugene to bring her back to them, but now when faced with his own solitude he wanted them to hurry. He wanted everyone to be together again.

_ If that’s even possible. _ He dropped his hands, stared out into the office he never really wanted. But naturally, in getting what you want there were always going to be things you didn’t want that came with it. Would having Artima and Eugene back in the fold really help? Was it them he wanted -- more people on his side -- or was it the Khort Mogoi and its firepower? _ I’m weaker without Naze and the Turbines, true, but there’s no guarantee Kheree is any good. Hell, I may never see her in action. _

Orga realized the line had become blurred between Artima and her Gundam. He thought back to the hangar below the dojo and how she’d known Kheree would be there. What had she said? 

_ “The more you embody, the less they can hurt you. ...both predator and prey,” _ he remembered.  _ Bird and viper. _ He felt like it was too late to follow that advice, even if it hadn’t been intended as such. _ I thought I was a predator but I feel more like prey. I could never be both. Back to being just some Martian scrap. _ He balled a fist.  _ Was it all just a delusion? Thinking that we could ride McGillis’ coattails to something bigger? And what now? We need to avenge Naze and Amida but would he help us do that, particularly after we take Kheree back from him? If we did it by ourselves we’re practically done for. Even with Kheree. Damnit everything feels farther away now than when we started. What have I done? _

He felt like an average snake -- not even a viper -- in the grip of talons of a bird too large to be seen, and that he’d spent almost all of his short-lived venom. It was a heavy realization after so long of considering himself to have wings.

 

* * *

 

In the brightly-lit elevator Eugene tugged on the Gjallarhorn uniform that Madame Ledendecker had ‘acquired’ for him. It fit relatively well but he still checked himself in the reflective surface of the elevator dialpad -- underneath it he wore both his own shirt and underwear and Artima’s suit, so things were a little warm and constricting around the joints. They’d slicked his hair back in a way that made him cringe -- luckily the stick-on beard they’d tried to give him looked too ridiculous on his young face -- in an effort to make him look more like the soldier he was impersonating. The sliced-off thumbprints they’d meticulously adhered to his own in order to get him through the doors, however, leant a darker tone to the entire proceedings. Though they hadn’t told him what they’d ultimately done with Horatio Greenwich he could imagine very well.

_ Stay focused, _ he told himself, and reminded himself of Madame Ledendecker’s explicit instructions just over an hour ago:  _ “No deviations. Stay calm, go directly to her and come directly out, and bring her to our custody. Walk with intention and do not interact with anyone unless absolutely necessary. It won’t take them long to discover the ruse should someone think to cross-check your whereabouts with the movements of Greenwich. If you are discovered we will deny all knowledge of you.” _

The elevator opened. Artima’s last registered location -- at 09:32 this morning, around seven hours ago -- was a room in the medical wing. Although Eugene had grown anxious at the idea that she still may be injured if she was still in the medical wing, he told himself there had to be some other reason. Also, it would make things easier for him there should he need an excuse for his presence even if it meant he was likelier to run into people. He did as told and avoided the reception, which was blocked by another visitor, and carried on his way, looking for Room 601. 

_ I’m coming, _ he thought, quickening his pace. He tried to keep an image of her in his mind as if it’d help. _ Close now. _

He jogged a couple of steps and then slowed when he realized. His heart, however, continued to thrum heavily and it only took a moment for his pace to speed up again, hurriedly checking room numbers, one white-gloved hand touching the wall every so often as if to better orient him.

_ 598... 599... _

He jogged toward a corner room.

_ 600... 601! _ Eugene practically ran into the door, then composed himself, checked for onlookers, and opened it, trying and failing to suppress a triumphant smile --

It was hard to say who was more startled, him or the gray-haired doctor. The latter had only been a couple of feet from the door and stumbled back, dropping a tablet. No sign of Artima anywhere.

_ Shit. _

“Excuse me,” said the doctor in a mumble. He crouched and picked up the tablet, then seemed to recognize the situation. He eyed the cuffs of Eugene’s uniform. “Is there...something you’re looking for, Sergeant?”

_ Well, no choice. _ Eugene barged forward so he could shut the door behind him. He drew the Gjallarhorn-issue handgun and pointed it at the doctor. “Where’s your patient? Artima Wei.”

Although the doctor was very still, he did not raise his hands or otherwise make a placatory gesture. Instead he eyed the gun, then Eugene’s face. “That depends on you.”

“Hm?”

“You haven’t released the safety,” the doctor said.

_ Shit. _ He hadn’t thought to check how beforehand.

As he fumbled, the doctor continued, “I’m Dr Isaacson. Are you a friend of hers?”

Eugene began waving the gun as a blunt object for the time being. “Listen, old man, I don’t need to fire this to make you talk, now --”

“Are you from Tekkadan?” Dr Isaacson interrupted. His expression took on a note of urgency. “You are, aren’t you? You’ve come for her.”

Although his tone reassured him, Eugene still said, “And if I am?”

“Then you don’t have much time. This is her room, yes, but she has just been escorted to a transport that will take her and her Gundam to space. Gjallarhorn wishes to test her loyalty by having her be present at the next battle between the Arianrhod fleet and your comrades.”

Eugene squinted, dropped all pretense. “What?”

Dr Isaacson moistened his lips and held more tightly to his tablet. “This morning there was a coup d’etat led by McGillis Fareed, in conjunction with Tekkadan. All but two of the remaining Seven Stars members have been taken hostage -- Elion is including Miss Wei in his countermeasures.”

“But...but she was on our side,” Eugene said dumbly. He couldn’t fathom her working against them -- the wind was taken from his sails.

“And this is why you need to go to her,” said Dr Isaacson, holding on to Eugene’s shoulders. Eugene was surprised by the fervor and shaken from his shellshock. “She tells me she is playing along with their whims but I’m not convinced. Maybe you can do better.”

Eugene’s head was loud with all of the new information. Too much had already happened since he’d been gone -- like everything had taken an abrupt dive into something far worse than they’d ever experienced. “Did...did McGillis have any other allies to bring with him other than us, do you know?” he asked more quietly than he’d intended.

Dr Isaacson shook his head.

It was like receiving warning of a tidal wave approaching a two-man boat. Strong as the urge was to go after Artima, this was far more pressing.  _ What if Orga doesn’t know what’s coming? _ He met the doctor’s eye. “I need to make a call. Can you help me?”

 

* * *

 

Orga was skeptical of accepting the call from the unknown channel, but then supposed what did it matter, anymore? He swiped ‘Accept’, and was startled when Eugene’s face appeared on screen -- in a Gjallarhorn uniform, no less. 

Absurd though it was, he had to laugh. “What did you do to your hair?”

“Nevermind that!” Eugene was distressed in a way he hadn’t seen before, which was saying something. “I leave for, what, just over a week and this is what happens? Orga, you want to go against the entire Arianrhod fleet, now? McGillis isn’t bringing anybody --”

“Eugene I know.” Orga felt the tiredness settle on him once more.

“And you’re doing this  _ without me _ ,” Eugene said. “I can’t believe you. This is suicide!”

“I’m sorry.” He couldn’t meet Eugene’s eye. “Have you found Artima?” A thin hope to at least change subject.

“I know where she is, but not exactly. Which brings me to yet  _ more _ bad news -- Rustal Elion is having Artima participate -- fight for Gjallarhorn. Like, I don’t know if...if she really would…”

Eugene trailing off into his thoughts allowed Orga’s own to surface. Briefly, he wondered if Artima was truly no longer on their side -- had he been too late? What had happened to make her change colors? Was she prey now too rather than predator, like him? Everything grew quiet in his head at the shock, the despair that it just might be true.

“Orga, do you think…?” Eugene said -- wouldn’t finish asking. Half a step from a plea.

Orga felt like he was back in the darkness of that pond again, his lungs burning, Artima letting go of him. Muscle-memory began to draw in a particularly deep breath. No -- she hadn’t been letting go that first time -- she had reached for him. Nor had she been letting go the second time when he’d woken up -- she had been rising, after breathing air back into his lungs. He remembered her advice -- not to take in too much air, to make it easier -- and stopped the inhale. “Eugene,” he said sternly. 

Eugene looked up expectantly. 

“It doesn’t matter anymore what I think,” Orga said, not really looking at him, his voice as loose as his body had felt in that water. “If you believe that she’s still with us, then I still want you to find her. If not...then come what may.”

Eugene was frowning -- angry but playing it down. “I’ll find her.”

Orga smiled weakly. “That’s what I thought. Then when you do -- don’t bring her here. I want you both to go to Kudelia instead. We’ve recently cut ties with Admoss so it should be safe.”

Under any other circumstances the way the anger immediately dropped from Eugene’s face would have made Orga laugh again, but he wouldn’t insult his friend with it. Surprisingly, though, Eugene’s voice was calm as he said, “I know what you’re doing. I don’t have time to tell you why it’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say, because I need to go get Artima and come back to you. We’ll see you soon, Boss.” He cut the connection.

Despite himself, Orga smiled again.

 

* * *

 

Eugene slammed his fist on the desk in the tiny box-room office Dr Isaacson had taken him to. The doctor himself hovered somewhere behind him and off to the side, silent. This isn’t how it was supposed to go -- any of it! He stood.

Dr Isaacson broke his silence with a, “You need to hurry.” He glanced at his watch. “They’ll probably depart on the hour. You have fifteen minutes to get to the launch bay.”

Eugene let himself pace in order to calm himself and focus, and then turned around. “Why’re you helping us? Me and her.”

The doctor looked away, as though ashamed. “I wish I knew. At first it was because she’s a fellow medical professional, but that’s not enough. Pity, maybe,” he shrugged. “For us both. I’ve not been able to do anything with my life thus far -- not really. Not go anywhere, or make a difference. I guess you could look at this as my last chance, since they’ll probably execute me for treason.” After a pause he held out a hand to Eugene’s gun. “This is how you take the safety off. Also you should know that the system logs all state-issued weapon discharges.” He showed him, and as he did so, said, “Take the elevator up to the tenth floor -- that’s second from the top -- and from there, go right until you hit the pilot servicing terminal. The signs can take you from there to the launch bay.”

“Right,” Eugene said, committing them to memory just as he committed the doctor’s deliberate movements to the gun’s two catches. “Thank you.”

“Likewise.”

Eugene frowned as Dr Isaacson wasn’t letting go of the gun, but rather raising it. “Hey --”

“Good luck,” said the doctor, pressed the gun barrel under his chin, and pulled the trigger.


	21. Roar

**Chapter 21: Roar**

 

“Sir, Transport K32 has launched from Vingolf.”

“Very good. Update me again when it reaches orbit.”

Julieta watched the aide retreat from her and Commander Rustal. “Transport K32, Sir?” she queried, though she had a feeling she knew the answer.

“One of the twelve units it carries is the Khort Mogoi,” he said. “We thought it best to keep it inconspicuous.”

Julieta frowned at the polished floor of the command deck. She’d agreed -- what choice did she truly have? -- to supervise the Khort Mogoi’s presence in the coming sortie, which Commander Rustal said would not take long and would barely amount to a skirmish. She understood that it was to test the Pilot’s loyalty to Gjallarhorn rather than McGillis -- something Commander Rustal seemed oddly confident about. Julieta wondered if the replacement pilot suit they’d constructed for her had any special features that could support his confidence and maybe, thus, her own. Not to mention that she resented being relegated to the position of babysitter in such turbulent times. 

“Once the transport disengages the units, you are to escort the Khort Mogoi to the aft flank,” Commander Rustal continued. “It shouldn’t be long now before McGillis and Tekkadan make a move.” He looked out of the main deck window in the latter’s direction, though they were still too far away to be seen with the naked eye.

“Sir…” Julieta began.

He turned to her. 

“Is it too soon?” she risked.

He placed his hands behind his back and looked away from her. “She volunteered, so naturally we should be suspicious. That’s why I have you. Don’t worry, there are other security measures in place should she betray us, but she’d have trouble going against an entire fleet by herself, particularly behind its lines. This is, ironically, the best place to keep her.”

Julieta supposed it was better than leaving her on Vingolf with McGillis running amok and only a skeleton crew besides. But surely the Pilot would have tried to stay behind, in that case?

“I have my reasons, Julieta.”

She straightened. “Of course, Sir.” She saluted. “I’ll go prepare.”

 

* * *

 

Eugene had only just made it in time. Hidden in a narrow engineering crawlspace, he caught his breath and waited for the roar of the launch to send all sensible crewmembers to their secured positions before venturing out himself. The steam of the crawlspace had reacted badly with the spray they’d used on his hair and it was beginning to rebel in interesting ways; he pushed it irritably out of his eyes. He shut out thoughts of Dr Isaacson’s suicide and focused on practically dragging himself in the direction of the cargo hangar.

_ I have no idea what we’re going to do when we get to space, _ he thought with a grimace.  _ This thing is probably going to the bigger fleet. But, I’ll figure that out. Even if we have to leave the Khort Mogoi, I can at least get Artima -- it’s easier to get a person out than a Gundam. Maybe I can hijack this or something.  _ He couldn’t even begin to think about how to get back to Orga.

From what little he’d been able to gather on his run through the Vingolf pilot terminal, transports such as these were relatively straightforward -- little more than an armored box with propulsion in the back and steering in the front. They were a utilitarian vehicle designed solely for orbit entry and exit assistance for smaller frames and did not contain much else, including security measures or defensive guns. Small consolation, but consolation nonetheless.

The airlock to the main hold was ahead. Over the roar and the blood thundering in his ears, he thought he heard shots, yells. It was hard to tell. He plodded one mag-soled boot in front of the other with greater urgency, though the effort made his thighs ache. He entered the first half of the airlock with his stolen thumbprint; only when the first half closed did the other half open.

The door parted to reveal chaos in half-gravity. The first thing to grab his attention was the Khort Mogoi undergoing an early disengagement from the travel brace -- a slow pushing-away from the row of the other five Gjallahorn units on his left, at this shaking, skewed angle like a shadow rising from a blur of green and gray. The soles of his shoes weren’t strong enough for this environment -- he held onto the doorframe to avoid rising with it. Then, blood floating in the air, and the sparks of a shot gravity control next to his arm. Another gunshot, another panicked scream, a return shot or two ricocheting off the interior. 

Six of the Gjallarhorn pilots had been shot in their takeoff seats, while the remaining five struggled. The twelfth seat was empty. Their double cross-body safety belts were not disengaging, the buttons that would do so unresponsive though they were jabbed repeatedly. Another pilot was shot -- more hot blood spurted into the air and slowed to a vivid drift. One of the remaining four had a shaking arm pointed upward to return fire and Eugene followed his line of sight.

Suited in black, Artima nearly blended with the Khort Mogoi as she floated in front of it, Gjallarhorn-issued gun held in both hands. Her face was blank.

“Get us out!” one of the other pilots yelled at him.

“Artima!” Eugene was already yelling.

“He’s with her!”

_ Shit.  _ He pushed himself away from the door to avoid a shot. 

Artima had her gun trained in his direction.

_ She drowned Orga, _ Eugene suddenly thought, in the nonsensical way that panic inspired. “It’s m--” A shot struck him, then a second, and it was only when he felt the pain in his back that he realized it wasn’t Artima.

Artima fired directly over his shoulder and through his pain he recognized the sound of a skull shattering. She fired three more times and all that was left was the roar. She sailed forward and grabbed him, pushed off from the doorframe and sailed back toward the open and ready torso of the Khort Mogoi. Once they were inside, its hatch closed like an eyelid. There was a brief sucking noise and his ears popped -- airtight sealing, he assumed. Which was good, since there weren’t any helmets in here. 

“You’re stupid, you know that?” was the first thing she said to him. She stowed the gun in a compartment.

“I know.” 

“Any other idiots with you?”

“No.” He hissed with the tugging on his back.

“Bear it,” she instructed. “First things first.” She pulled herself into her cockpit’s harness; the space wasn’t very large and Eugene had to angle himself awkwardly to keep out of her way. The harness retracted a little and brought her a small ways off the floor. The roar outside was beginning to subside and there was a  _ clank _ as the Khort Mogoi fully disengaged. 

“They made you a new suit?” he grimaced, looking it over.

“It’ll do for now. I’ll have to debug it once we’re out of here.”

“I have your original,” he said.

“Not now. Hold on to something and keep as clear of me as you can.”

Artima reached behind her and pulled out the large pilot’s needle from the wall, positioned it at the base of her skull -- he looked away at the last moment but heard it go in, followed by a  _ hiss _ and a  _ whir _ , and a series of  _ clicks _ and  _ clacks _ . When he risked looking back, he was surprised to see that a perfectly solid helmet had formed around her head. Due to her arm being near him, he saw her suit suddenly contract against her body and she went rigid for a moment. The interior of the cockpit remained lit only by a set of lights behind her -- no sign of the normal controls. He had no idea what she was doing or seeing, but when she moved, the Khort Mogoi moved.

Eugene’s hands shot up to his ears as there was a tremendous shriek and ripping of metal, a bang, and a decidedly different roar. He then held on as best he could down in the corner -- well, bottom edge -- of the egg-like cockpit by her feet as she made the Khort Mogoi turn and weave. He watched in the half-light: her movements were little more than a subtle angling of her body, a dip of one shoulder or another. Then, after a few moments of relatively steady flight, she touched her middle finger to her thumb and reached across her chest to her opposite shoulder, pulling something out of a strap there. He could barely see what it was, but she slotted it into a dock of sorts in the concave wall.

_ “‘Touch’, initiated,” _ said a voice quietly that sounded much like hers, but was too  _ around _ him to be.

The thrusters, then the entire system went quiet, and he felt the initial momentum of their flight carry him in their original direction before it subsided. Had they escaped? He couldn’t see anything in here. Everything rapidly grew cold.

Artima reached up and pressed something at the top of the helmet’s crown, and it collapsed down and backward away from her face but did not completely disappear. She seemed to take a long while to re-focus on him and even then it wasn’t complete. “We’re in camouflage for now, but still in range of the fleet. If --”

“Are you okay?” he asked. How long had he wanted to ask that? It felt like a stone falling out of his mouth, it was so heavy.

She seemed surprised by his question, and at length smiled. “I will be. You?”

He smiled back -- her divided concentration made her look gentler, in direct contrast to the sharp creature in the transport hold. “Yeah,” he said dazedly.  _ Yeah this is who I came for. No -- shut up! Concentrate! _ “Well, I’m shot, so there’s that, but otherwise yeah.” Was it warm in here again, or was it just him? Whatever the cause, it made it easy to think they were safe.

“I take it you’re wearing the original suit?” she asked.

Suddenly it was much more embarrassing than even the original onset of the idea. “...Sorry. I thought I’d smuggle it in. Do you...do you want it back…?”

“Not right now. It’s actually helpful that you’re wearing it. We’ve got a bit of time. Kheree can see to you. You’ll have to help me, though.”

“What?”

“If we can wire you in too, she can help me speed up your body’s healing responses, or at least limit the pain.” She seemed to detect his next thought. “No needle required.” She turned and opened a small hatch in the middle of the lights, where the arm-thick wire that attached her brain to the Khort Mogoi’s disappeared, and began carefully poking around as if it were a lobotomy. “Go ahead and get rid of that uniform.” 

In the cramped space, he obeyed. Although it wasn’t like he was getting naked in front of her he still felt somewhat embarrassed, but tried to push it aside. He couldn’t see exactly what she was doing, but every so often she would freeze or wince, and the Gundam around them would flinch, too. 

“We have maybe twenty minutes before I’ll need to recharge,” she said weakly, her attention still divided. She had pulled two wires out from the main cluster.

“We need to get back to Orga ASAP,” he said, stowing the boots and the rest of the uniform in another compartment he found. “Or at least call him.” He pulled off his own shirt next, followed reluctantly by his tie, and stowed them too. He had to pause and breathe deeply at the strain all of it had put on the wound in his back.

“We can’t,” she said.

Abruptly he was thrown back into the panic, the uncertainty. He thought he’d been sure of her allegiance -- and they got out of Gjallarhorn’s transport and were hiding from them, and she’d brought him with her -- but there was a shred of anxiety that he’d somehow still got it wrong.

“A call would broadcast our location, and it’s too great a distance to travel right now. Kheree’s not meant to travel long distances unaccompanied, even at full power. They’ll need to come closer. We’ll wait for the sortie and in the meantime, stay where there’s prey.” She pulled the wires out carefully even more so they could reach him comfortably, and breathed in sharply. 

“Does -- will doing this for me hurt you?” he asked. “Because if it does --”

“No, it’s just disorientating. That’s why we have to do this while we can be still, and have less strain on me.”

“What if there were two of us piloting?” he burst. “That could --”

“No.”

Eugene deflated. She gestured at him to turn his back to her and he did so; she gently pulled him closer. He shuddered a little when her fingers grazed his whiskers.  _ Whatever’s out there give me strength,  _ he thought.  _ Now is not the time. _

“You’ll have to help me,” she reminded him.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” He reached behind him, found her hand that held the wires. He pulled them over his shoulder to examine the ends and see what he was working with.

“No.”

He smiled to himself.

“But it’s worked on someone without any implants before.”

“Four hundred years ago.”

“Four hundred years ago,” she agreed. As he worked carefully to find the best way to connect, directed her where he could, she warned, “This should only be the weakest of links, but there may be some kickback even though we’re not doing much. In other words, excess data may still slip through along with the basic commands I give and the access you allow Kheree. It shouldn’t be overwhelming since I’ll put a barrier up, but I wanted to warn you ahead of time in case you wondered why you started seeing system diagnostics.”

“Hopefully my nanites don’t freak out.” 

“They should cooperate.”

There was silence for a moment. Her warmth at his back was soothing, but eventually Eugene broke the quiet with, “Hey.”

“Hm?”

“You’re coming back to us, right?”

Artima didn’t answer. He felt her warm palm on his neck, followed by a  _ click _ , and he lost vision in both eyes. Their tiny world that he was just beginning to enjoy was wrenched from him -- or maybe it was the other way around.

 

* * *

 

Julieta circled Transport K32 in her Reginlaze Julia along with five others. The back portion of the transport ship had been ripped apart, rendering its propulsion inoperable and effectively scuppering the vessel despite the intact cockpit. The pilot and copilot had, at least, been able to relay that the other suit pilots had been killed in their seats and that the Khort Mogoi was gone.

_ How is it that it can completely disappear? _ she thought, gritting her teeth and switching from one vision mode to another on her primary display.  _ Not even a heat signature. That shouldn’t be possible. All other readings are normal, too, so we can’t be jammed. While we had historical records of a camouflage protocol being used, according to the technicians there was no current framework for it, so how… _ She scanned the bright curvature of the Earth in front of her, thinking.  _ It can’t travel far, though. It’s still here somewhere. _


	22. Seen

**Chapter 22: Seen**

It was a rush akin to connecting to any mobile suit or ship, but Eugene definitely felt more passive in this exchange. There was definitely another presence in it, this time. He’d never felt it to this degree before, but his blood stirred -- the nanomachines in his implant, probably -- as a new wave of electrical signals and directives was forced on them. As though stunned into obedience, he could feel his blood move in response and rush to the injury site. The pain was already subsiding. There wasn’t much time to focus on this, however, because the ‘excess data’ Artima had spoken of was seeping up into his brain, along with a sudden view of the Khort Mogoi’s diagnostics, as she’d speculated.

 _I can see what she sees,_ Eugene thought, taking in the sudden expanse of stars and Arianrhod fleet between the pale green charts. _And...I can feel it. Not well, but it’s there -- the Khort Mogoi. Kheree._ It felt like three of them inhabiting one body and it set his teeth on edge, so he tried to focus on the system readings. _She’s running absolutely cold -- everything’s off except life support -- that’s for the camouflage._ He traced its source to the small drive Artima had docked in the wall.

Although he wasn’t sure if he should, it didn’t take much for Eugene to reach out into the rest of the system -- into the Viper Construct, and Kheree proper. It was like the Gundam had allowed him in --  or maybe it had given these things to him, he couldn’t be sure. Historical footage felt more like memory. The normal ebb and flow of the residual pressures of the reactor was a heartbeat like his own. He was sharing a sort of consciousness in a way he’d never experienced with another vessel.

_How is this possible? This system is meant to be less advanced…_

Stranger still was how other images, other memories, were flooding his vision, making him dizzy, pulling out one uninhibited emotion after another from him to contort his face. Memories that didn’t -- couldn’t -- belong to the Gundam.

_They’re Artima’s._

His eyes couldn’t pick out one from another they were registering so fast, and somehow after a few moments he just _knew_ them, like he knew Kheree’s -- like he knew his own and maybe now Artima and Kheree knew them too. He felt more naked than he ever would have with his clothes off and simultaneously like he’d seen her naked too, by virtue of these memories. The intimacy, alien to him, was intoxicating and frightening. He ached.

 _Artima -_ \- _no -- that’s not her real name._

Eugene tried to navigate the jumbled treasure that’d been bestowed on him in mere moments. He found it: it was one where she was closer to the ground and so he reasoned she’d been a young child. She was laughing -- he could feel it in his face -- as she ran through a greenhouse full of rows and blocks of different plants and flowers; the plastic sides of the greenhouse were rolled up to let in the sunshine and a strong wind from a large cargo helicopter that was landing nearby; an adult called her name.

He repeated it to himself, handling it carefully: _“Sarnai.”_

At the internal sound, he could swear he felt a flood of satisfaction from the Gundam. The images began to fade, and his grip on reality returned. He was back to feeling the bizarre sensation of his body rushing the knitting-together of his flesh, and the far more pleasant one of Artima’s hands on his shoulders. She released him; he turned slowly.

He cleared his throat, raised his gaze inch by inch. “You didn’t tell me it’d be a memory bank,” he said quietly, evenly. Had it been deliberate? It wasn’t funny, but otherwise he wasn’t sure how to feel. Guilty? Sad? Grateful? He looked into her dark eyes for guidance but in them, only saw the reasons for their distance and their own decidedly more ancient ache. It burned.

It seemed she was having trouble, too: her face was shocked, her brow creased, mouth parted. She blinked slowly. What he’d once thought was a figure of speech on his part was now an actuality -- she truly _had_ seen him. All of it. “There -- there should have been walls.” She looked down, between them. “I’m sorry.” He’d never known her to look this uncomfortable.

“No need to be. There’s nothing I’m ashamed of. I’m the one who’s sorry,” he said.

“No need for you to be either.” She rolled her eyes, “It’s Kheree who should be sorry.”

The humor fell flat and silence took over. She still wouldn’t look at him and he was back to being incredibly conscious of the limited space in the cockpit, as well as the awful knowledge that he no longer felt any doubt whatsoever about his decision to come find her or how he felt about her. It was harder to deal with the certainty than it’d been to deal with the ambiguity and there was absolutely no time or space to figure it out.

“Are you in my thoughts right now?” Eugene quickly asked.

“No. Back to a wall.”

“Er, good.”

“Turn,” she said, and he did so. He felt her gently touch near the spot he’d been shot and was grateful she’d physically, forcibly changed the subject. “We can disconnect you, now. Your body will do the rest. We got lucky that Kheree kept calm.”

He felt her fingers working at the wires in his whiskers, tried not to squirm. “So...the Khort Mogoi --” No, he was too close to the Gundam now, too. He’d call her what Artima called her, even if he couldn’t say Artima’s real name aloud in turn. Not yet. “-- Kheree...has a soul?”

“One of the ironies of the Viper Construct. It took my soul for a long time, but eventually Kheree seemed to draw her own out of it, yes. I imagine Mikazuki has a similar experience with Barbatos. Don’t be fooled -- though we can work in harmony for a while, prolonged immersion in the Viper Construct isn’t good for anyone. And I’m out of practice.”

Eugene felt her disconnect him in a sudden loss of a sixth sense, a narrowing of his vision almost. “I still don’t see why you won’t let me help you. I could take some of the edge off.”

“This isn’t piloting a ship, Eugene. It’s not made for more than one person giving instructions.”

“I’ve piloted more than just ships, y’know.” He turned around again.

Her eyes fixed on his. “I know. Please trust my judgment.”

He challenged her gaze a moment more. In light of what had been exchanged and his own realizations, it was hard not to ascribe additional meaning to anything she said or to let it weigh down his thinking, but he had to try. They were behind enemy lines, after all. His boss and friend had embroiled the only family he had in a doomed coup. He couldn’t let himself be fooled into thinking that the passing of a personal milestone meant that his mission was over.

“What?”

He blinked, realized he’d just been staring at her, maybe even smiling -- _as if this was a time to fucking smile like an idiot!_ “Nothing,” he said. “I trust you.” He took in a deep breath. “What now? I can’t see shit anymore.”

“I’m going to get us over to one of the ships. We’ll wait there until the fighting starts, then I’ll recharge Kheree using the husker and from there, we’ll have to hop from one source to another until we can reach the Isaribi. Camouflage will reduce in potency the more active we become, and it’s a drain on energy too.” She pressed something on top of her helmet again and it reconstructed, hiding her face.

“When is it supposed to start?”

“Tomorrow, they calculated, unless Orga or McGillis do something stupid. I’m going to try to tap into the Ariadne network so we can stay informed.”

 

* * *

 

Artima had painstakingly drifted them to one of the larger battleships and anchored them just above one of its thruster exhausts to help disguise any of their own incidental heat output. Only with this done had she agreed to wire him back into Kheree so that he could see outside and help her keep watch. Not that there had been much to watch in the last few hours -- while small groups of Grazes drifted from one quadrant of the Arianrhod near-territory to another, presumably still in search of them, everything else was remarkably quiet and it was amplified by the shadow cast over them. The battleships and smaller battalions held rank as steady lines of blue dots of varying size. They’d managed to tap into their radio but it ran quietly as a small but steady trickle in their consciousness.

She’d explained that Kheree had always worked in tandem with the Komori, which was why it appeared that Kheree was surprisingly helpless, and accordingly that this was not what she was designed to do. Kheree was more of a berserker; the camouflage had been a later, prototype addition when the nature of their missions changed. She’d explained this in spite of the fact that Eugene had ‘heard’ it all from Kheree, and once she was done there was nothing to fill the silence if they weren’t going to talk about what they had each seen in the other’s memory. Eugene wasn’t sure which was worse: the suffocating closeness with Artima or the frustrating distance from Tekkadan. A half-sleep had been a compromise that’d crept up on him after the third hour -- from emotional exhaustion as much as physical. Artima had put away the front portion of her helmet again, allowing him to see that she slept too.

Eugene wasn’t sure how long he’d slept, but when he woke, the lack of gravity had cradled them next to one another in the cold; at some point he’d held onto Artima’s arm, and she onto his, as though otherwise they’d drift away into the blackness. This realization sparked a blush and a sudden string of ‘Oh no’s that repeated itself in the background of his brain over the top of the radio transmissions, and he had to actively focus on something else. Instead, tiredness returned, and an equally-overwhelming -- albeit unfamiliar -- feeling of tenderness, which was easier to accept.

Carefully, he tried wrapping first one arm then the other around her. She didn’t withdraw or seem to notice, so he held her close, as much to comfort himself as to do the same for her. Nothing else was meant by it. Her memories began to untangle for him now that his tired brain was, contrastingly, releasing its grip on them, and they began to march out of order behind his half-open eyes:

_There was the one in the greenhouse from her childhood; a dance class with other students on a waxed wood floor; her and Taki dumbing down their shooting skills at some kind of game in an outdoor place with bright colors at night, then not concealing them whatsoever on a shooting range; meeting Taki for the first time in some trees that had more lilac, blousy flowers than leaves, “Think fast!” echoing through his brain; being measured for the pilot suit and the brief coolness of the cloth tape measure on her arm; her Doctor’s hands on her shoulders; the first time, as a battle medic, that she’d taken up arms in a mobile suit to defend her downed team, the dust in her mouth…_

_The first time she’d eaten lemon sorbet; fragments of medical texts and simulations; the first time she’d been shot (her right ribcage -- they’d had to cut open her combat vest); her Doctor taking away her pet cat as a punishment and how she’d stifled her crying in her room; her first kiss, after some kind of chase game with other army barracks kids behind the mess hall; testing some upgrades for Kheree and practically running into the Wing Gundam during a storm, how silver and beautiful it looked until her first seizure had gripped her body and taken her sight; her and Taki getting their ears pierced at the top together with matching silver rings; the first time she’d had sex (on the floor of a clinical-looking office -- she’d cried) and another, happier time in the warmth of her own bed in Nouveau, with her friend Kal; torture during Operation Nouveau in a dark room with a tiled floor that curved to drain away the blood, hands slipping up her shirt, the crack of a neck between her legs; Heero, under the alias ‘Jack’, staring at her as she danced in the nightclub; her Doctor’s hand over her mouth; her and Taki cutting each other’s hair; helping her foster family in the barracks kitchen though she couldn’t see the top of the counter; Heero promising to fix her; Heero putting her in the cryogenesis bay -- his hand on the glass; her dreams as she slept for four centuries..._

_What do I do with these?_ Eugene thought. _What will she do with mine?_

 

* * *

 

The second time Eugene woke, they were still cold and still holding on to one another, only this time it was Artima’s chin resting on his head, her arms around his back. She shifted her shoulders -- she was awake. Worriedly, he loosened his grip and prepared to draw away.

“It’s all right,” she said quietly, like she understood. She probably did, come to think of it. Her own grip did not loosen, and his resumed.

“Is it?”

“It will be, one way or another.” She took in a deep, slow breath. “Things will get warm in here again when we make our move -- enjoy the cold while it lasts.”

He listened to her steady heartbeat for a little while, enjoyed the simplicity and comfort of human contact. It soothed the fear that he’d been carrying ever since he could remember, that had been buried out of necessity and guilt and the image he’d made for himself. He hadn’t realized that this -- comfort -- was something he’d needed for a long time and felt humbled that Artima had picked up on it. _Of course she would have. She knows. She’s seen it. She’s seen_ me _and --_

“It’s all right to be afraid. You’re not bad for doubting Orga,” she said, surprising him. “Not treacherous, or a disappointment. Not everyone’s destiny can lead to another person. He understands that too. Deviation is a natural part of growth.” She could feel her thumb rubbing over his shoulderblade. “You’re not a child anymore; you have to find your way, and he’ll do his best to facilitate that even in times like these. That’s the risk that comes with love -- that the people you love may not love you to the depth that you love them. But you do it anyway. So honor him by letting him, and don’t feel guilty about wanting something different after all.”

Eugene was embarrassed by the lump in his throat, the prickle of his eyes. “We’ve still gotta help him,” he said as brusquely as he could manage.

She hummed in agreement and he heard it in her chest, felt it reverberate in his bones. “We will. But he told you to go to Kudelia, on Mars. You know why -- he sees that you have a chance to live, if you do that. Don’t blame him for trying.”

He tried to swallow. “Yeah well I don’t deserve that -- not any more than any of the others do. It was a stupid order and I don’t have to listen to it.”

“No, you don’t,” she said. She waited for a moment as though gauging him, and then added, “You should believe that you deserve to live, though.”

“Says the hypocrite.”

She hesitated. “Sometimes another person -- or people -- have to lead us back to that idea. We have it as children and then we lose it somewhere along the way.”

“Have you been brought back to the idea?”

“Maybe.”

There were a couple of minutes of comfortable silence, in which Eugene’s embarrassment and fear faded.

“The lines are getting noisy. Let’s go ahead and swap suits -- it’s getting close to time,” she said.


	23. Eat

**Chapter 23: Eat**

 

“-- and now I come to find that your subordinate has stolen the Khort Mogoi and its pilot out from under us --”

“She’s nothing to be stolen.”

“-- and now no one has any idea where they are.”

_ Maybe that’s for the best, _ Orga thought. He placated McGillis with, “It’s not as though she was going to act against you -- us.”

“It pains me to admit this but you haven’t been here to see how Rustal has drawn her away. I don’t know who your deputy came for but we cannot be certain of her allegiance.”

Orga hesitated. “Trust Eugene. Trust her. She wouldn’t have left like that -- with bloodshed -- if she was on Gjallarhorn’s side.”

“With her absence she may as well be.” McGillis stared intently at Orga through the monitor. “If you’ve cut them loose…” He seemed to reconsider completing his thought -- as if it would show something he didn’t want to be seen -- and composed himself. The call was shut off.

As always, Orga felt all eyes on him. He couldn’t turn to any of them. 

It took only a minute more for the broadcast to sputter on the lines, filling the bridge. Some young Gjallarhorn officer not much older than him, wasting no time in raving about the corruption of Gjallarhorn. Liza Enza. This was a repeat broadcast; the speaker himself was due here soon, hopefully with more up-to-date information about the Fleet now that McGillis seemed to have more personal vendettas front and center -- some ‘trump card’. Who knew when they’d hear from him again. Or if.

_ They will have detained members of the Seven Stars by now, and start putting up new defenses. That guy Iok should be on house arrest according to our reports -- if we can trust that he’ll stay there. But Rustal...he’s still at large. The counterattack could start any minute now,  _ Orga thought.  _ And what about Eugene? Kheree? And Mikazuki is still down on the ground… _

It shouldn’t have surprised him that a call then came through from Mikazuki; he answered it immediately.

_ “Isn’t it time yet?” _

Orga normally would have found amusement in his impatience, but lately it hadn’t been sitting well with him. It made him even more exhausted. “Sorry,” he replied. “Just a little more until their headquarters is completely suppressed. I need you to wait there a little longer.”

_ “Where’s Chocolate?” _

It took Orga a moment to figure out the nickname. God he was tired. “The General’s preparing the finishing touches. And don’t call him that.” He took in a deep, steadying breath. “Just a little more,” he said to himself as much as Mikazuki. “Victory’s within our grasp.” It was so close he could taste it.

 

* * *

 

“You’re sure I can’t?”

Artima looked down at Eugene as she made final preparations; he was knotting his tie over the Gjallarhorn copy of her suit as if it was part of  _ his _ final preparations. The plea made him sound younger than she knew him to be, by the things she’d seen in his memories. “I’m sure,” she said, though it was partly a lie. It wasn’t that he  _ couldn’t _ necessarily help pilot Kheree if pressed -- Kheree seemed to recognize something in him to like and welcome, but it was that very bizarre, unprecedented notion that made Artima not  _ want _ to let him help her. Not to mention it went against her and Heero’s wish to see the system end with her. The only reason she’d let him keep the copy on was in the event of needing a quick escape -- or if this next act killed her, and left him stranded. “You’ll just have to sit back and enjoy the ride.”

“It’s not very exciting down here in the ‘corner’ of the egg,” he said, sitting down at her feet with his knees to his chin, trying to make himself as small as possible. 

Artima considered him a moment, and then sighed. “All right. If you promise not to distract me, I’ll at least wire you in so you can see what’s going on. Come here.” He leaned forward, bearing his nape with a triumphant grin, and she began to hook him up.

Suddenly the cockpit resonated with a loud and startlingly clear broadcast.

“Listen well, all of Gjallarhorn! From a sleep of three hundred years and into the hands of McGillis Fareed, Bael is resurrected!”

“McGillis,” Eugene said. “What’s happening? What the fuck is Bael?”

The blond fucker, Artima thought. She searched through recent interactions with him but couldn’t call anything to mind that related or explained.

“...Every Gjallarhorn member must understand what this Mobile Suit means. In Gjallarhorn, the one who controls Bael has absolute power. He reigns supreme. You must obey, notwithstanding your rank or philosophy.”

“That’s never good,” Artima said. She finished wiring Eugene in. 

A new voice began transmitting with equal gusto. “My name is Gaelio Bauduin. The son of Gallus Bauduin! I declare here and now that I will defeat the traitor McGillis Fareed.”

“Sounds like ‘something stupid’ is about to begin. Get ready.” Artima pulled her gloves back on and zipped them shut. Her heartrate started to speed up with anticipation, and Kheree responded by slowly coming out of sleep. Artima forced herself to breathe easy lest they be detected. Absurdly, her stomach began to growl with hunger.

Yet another broadcast crackled into being. “This is Rustal Elion, the commander of the Arianrhod Fleet. Until now, we -- the Arianrhod Fleet -- have kept Gaelio Bauduin under our protection. He exposed McGillis Fareed’s offenses to us. To acquire the Outer Earth Orbit Regulatory Joint Fleet, he cunningly murdered Commander Carta Issue. He also took over his family from his adoptive father Iznario Fareed, and by killing Gaelio Bauduin and making Almiria Bauduin his wife, he schemed to take possession of the Bauduin family as well.”

“Shit,” Eugene breathed. “He’s fucked over...everybody. I mean we figured as much, but --”

“That is not all. He disgraced Gundam Bael, the symbol of Gjallarhorn in which the soul of Agnika Kaieru -- the founder of Gjallarhorn -- sleeps. Even if it means to break the laws of Gjallarhorn, the Arianrhod Fleet will bring McGillis Fareed to justice!”

There was a huge rumble under them, and the blare of sirens. The communication lines became chaotic with multiple commands and reactions and Artima closed her eyes, sifting through them to make sense of what was going on. She spoke distantly, “Bael has launched...the Barbatos in the vicinity...fleet launching...twenty...thirty-five...forty halfbeak-type battleships...target: McGillis and Tekkadan.”

“Shit. All that?” Eugene said. They both watched as ships launched, glaze troops filed out and rearranged into loose ranks cross-hatching the glow of Earth below them. “We have to hurry up! Orga needs us! If it’s just him and that fuckwit --”

“Stay calm,” Artima ordered. “I need to calculate a trajectory, which I can’t do until they’re fully mobilized.” She listened carefully for a few minutes more.

“‘Tima…” Eugene groaned impatiently.

The unexpected, familiar shortening of her name caught her off guard for a few seconds, and then she tuned back in to the comm. Finally she was able to piece together what she wanted to hear. “Got it -- I know where the Isaribi is.” She looked down at Eugene, “I won’t be able to talk to or hear you, all right? So please just trust me.”

“Right, and stay out of your way, got it, let’s just go!”

She couldn’t help but smile at him. “Hold on to something, then.” 

She pressed the clasp of her suit’s collar until it clicked, and she both winced at and welcomed the familiar feeling of the second skin piercing through and retracting against her. She pushed herself up a little higher in the harness, and triggered her helmet to retract around her head. A tap at the player docked in her wall had her old playlist stirring to life in her ears and heart. In the time it took her to take a breath, Kheree had brought up her navigation controls. The troops were still enough, now. She programmed the coordinates of the Isaribi first as an end destination, and then called up a power-based map of all the other vehicles between them like a charged asteroid field in blue and yellow. In a couple of minutes, the sortie would begin and nothing would be stationary -- not that it mattered. 

_ Shortest course from us to them; current charge levels at 30% -- regain 50% within first sprint, not to take less than 15%, to equal approximately 55% to 78%. Priority: recharge. Secondary: combat. _

Artima had Kheree note the larger of the power sources, and prepared to take their camouflage offline. The reactor began to warm up with a pleasant prickle over her body. Her stomach growled again.

_ I’ve found all I could at Gjallarhorn, _ she mused. She thought back to Orga’s words --  _ I drowned there for the privilege --  _ she could feel Eugene’s presence in the cockpit like a ghost --  _ and now I’ll be brought back _ \-- and McGillis’ words -- _ I’ll resurrect _ .

Artima saw the first shots fired at the far side of the fleet as a lone Gundam rose from Earth -- a meteor returning to the stars. Units were pulled toward it like debris in its wake. She disengaged camouflage and anchoring, and Kheree crouched. Artima sank into her old body, her old soul.

_ Time to feed. _

Kheree’s thrusters engaged full-force and she leapt from the shadow of the ship in a dive. The first target was a cluster of four glazes stationed near the stern of a cruiser, facing away from her. Kheree fell upon them, striking at their joints with bladed gauntlets and feet to render them immobile, and wasted no time in bringing out the husker. Her left hand splayed, opening the husker’s jaws, and jabbed at the boosters on their backs. Kheree breathed in deep as the four teeth countered the chemical reaction of the power cell’s exposure, glowing amber, and converted the energy generated, drawing it into Kheree’s own cells. Her armor heated in response -- Artima half-eyed the swell of the bar graph in her periphery -- and the cockpit began to grow warm, but she nonetheless repeated this process with the other three glazes. Mere flightless shells with screaming occupants were left behind, and she moved on.

Kheree rounded the cruiser. By this point, nearby enemies had been alerted to her presence: the cruiser began to fire aft canons -- easily dodgeable --  and a new troupe of glazes was headed for her from the port side. Ahead, a section of the fleet was headed toward what could only be the Barbatos and Bael arcing away from Earth’s exosphere, and the Isaribi themselves were on the move in a charge toward the front line. 

_ Come closer. _

Kheree flurried through the six glazes like wind through falling leaves. She used her blades to cut through their rifles, and to counter strikes from their battleaxes, her normally highly-malleable armor had heat rapidly drawn from it until it cooled and hardened. Four were ripped to pieces, a fifth incapacitated and drifting toward the cruiser’s thruster. There was only time to use the husker on the remaining one for half the drainage time, anyhow.

_ Charge at 59%.  _

The enemy was becoming thicker, crowding the distance between her and the Isaribi -- this was going to take more time than anticipated. More investment than anticipated. But then, that’d been the story of her life, hadn’t it? She drew the hilt of her scimitar from her waist, activated both beam blades in a blaze of amber, raised it at the approaching wave.

_“‘Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds’,”_ she remembered abruptly. Duo had been reading to her to calm her in one of her bad come-downs. He’d babbled in that endearing way about the discovery of the atomic bomb, the misinterpretation of that quote from the _Bhagavad-Gita_ , about how he’d always called himself Shinigami but was thinking differently now, in that winter of AC 211. They all were. Like they’d misinterpreted themselves and everything around them. Perhaps somehow he’d known what was going to happen to her. What was it he’d said? That there was a snake eating its own tail, Ouroboros, that still symbolized infinity, while he’d heard of ravens as both creators, tricksters, and corpse-feeders -- their own kind of infinity, forever bridging life and death, even their own. _“‘_ _I am Time, the mighty force which destroys everything, fully Manifesting Myself, I am here engaged in destroying the worlds.’”_

_ "...this place called Shedao Island. He says there's a shitton of pitvipers that live there but they only get to eat twice a year when birds that're migrating pass through. … Maybe this life, this go round, was just the first time you eat. And when you wake up, it'll be the second time. … Make that second meal a good one. Get off Shedao Island...” _

_ Her, asking Heero what he would do if given another life. Him, replying, “I’m glad I’ve only been given one life. It was all I was meant for. It’s all I’ve needed. And I met you.” _

Artima blinked. A piece of debris plinked off her shoulder as they sailed out of a fiery cloud. The wave had crashed, and was behind them. 

_ Charge at 67%. _

Kheree moved on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Note from the Author: A quick disclaimer that the speeches from Rustal, McGillis, and Gaelio are not my own - they are transcribed from Episodes 43&44 of the anime. Also, I have taken a couple of liberties with the timing of the sortie / Bael and Barbatos' joining of it, for pacing's sake. Lastly and obviously, I make no claim of ownership of the two quotes from the Bhagavad-Gita. Thanks again for your patience with updates!


	24. Rip

**Chapter 24: Rip**

 

 _At least I’ll have had one wish granted,_ Orga thought.

“Artima’s tearing up the literal ass of that fleet!”

A glance around the bridge showed him that he wasn’t the only one shocked and enthralled by the zoom-in onscreen; he wished he had a way to project it to the younger boys down below. In front of them, the Khort Mogoi was in actual flight -- actual combat! The Gundam was almost half the size of the glazes, its shape simpler, and was nearly as dark as their surroundings -- as if space itself had taken up a knife. The photograph he’d wondered over not so many weeks ago had sprung to life out of the pages of history and was retaking its foothold on his imagination, on its legend, with a speed and viciousness that was nearly too quick to follow. There was only one problem: it was headed in the wrong direction.

“I told him not...” Orga said through gritted teeth, clenching the arms of his chair. He looked at Chad. “Can we hail it?” _It. There’s likely no ‘her’ in there._

“No, Sir -- not yet. Too much interference.”

“Interference? We can hail Barbatos and Flauros --”

“From the Khort Mogoi.”

Scowling, Orga turned back to the screen. What was he truly looking at, then?  He knew he didn’t have time to speculate, but it was hard to not feel a twinge of fear at the idea of Kheree coming for them simply to tear through them -- despite what he’d assured McGillis.

“Keep trying,” he said, “and let’s get back to our bigger problem.” The zoom-in was dismissed.

 

* * *

 

“Sir! Rear guard are struggling to remobilize. The Khort Mogoi --”

“ _I can see that_ , yes,” Rustal said. “Tell those idiots to fan out -- don’t give her anything to feed on. You have to wear her down -- strand her. All we need to do is hold out for a few minutes longer, and then her scrabbling around won’t matter.”

“Sir?”

Rustal held his tongue. It would soon become clear, anyhow.

Seeing that he wasn’t going to get an answer, the aide began to convey his orders to the nearest glaze troupes. Within moments, they began to retreat from the black and violet, amber, and red-sheened berserker, creating an orb of vacant space. The Khort Mogoi attempted to follow a couple of stragglers; the husker was fired courtesy of a long cable connecting the head of it and the arm, catching one of the glazes and bleeding it dry. That crucial pause, however, had allowed even more distance to grow between the Gundam and its next food source.

“There’s a price for indulging your bloodlust, Ms Wei, and there's no Komori out here to help you.”

It was only courtesy of the Khort Mogoi’s double scimitar that Rustal was able to pick it out against the inkiness of space as a particularly brave trio of glaze pilots lured her further out. He tried to recall how long it’d been since he’d seen a beam blade used in combat. When it went dark, he had to squint, and he didn’t want to call attention to his particular interest in it by asking for a zoom.

_What are you up to? It stopped. Is it...turning?_

“Sir,” Julieta’s face appeared on-screen. “Permission to engage the Khort Mogoi.”

“Denied,” he said. Sometimes her dogmatic enthusiasm got on his nerves. “The last thing we need is you being incapacitated by a personal vendetta. Focus on the Barbatos and the Flauros.”

“Sir,” she acknowledged, pouting.

With her gone, Rustal again focused on the Khort Mogoi hovering above the battlefield, just enough out of reach of other ships. But why wasn’t it moving? Surely it had enough propulsion left to get it back into range of _something_. Despite himself, Rustal said, “Zoom in on the Khort Mogoi.” When they’d done so, he added, “Calculate its possible trajectory.”

A shaded cone of red appeared on the map, emanating from the pinprick of the Gundam’s location. The broader end was in the direction of the Isaribi, with several friendly and enemy units in between. “It’s standing still, Sir, meaning there’s only a 30% chance --”

The Khort Mogoi’s boosters exploded into life, rocketing the light craft impossibly fast into the melee in a head-on, straight line. Some units managed to move in time -- others were not so lucky. Rustal saw all but too late where that straight line ended. He opened his mouth to order the cruiser to take evasive maneuvers, but the Khort Mogoi slammed into it before he could make a sound.

 

* * *

 

“ _Fuck!_ Fuck fuck fuck!” Eugene raved as he pushed himself up from the floor. “What’s happening? What -- ‘Tima -- Kheree -- what’re you...you can’t be serious --”

More tearing of metal, a chaos of plating and explosions and Kheree’s limbs ripping the back of the cruiser apart unfolding before his eyes. The Gundam was pushing itself into a fresh corpse. The hell that was the scraping and the bodies drifting past his vision gave way to another -- Kheree finally getting close enough to the reactor and plunging the husker into it, drinking deeply. Above him, Artima’s body had gone rigid, hunched mid-pounce.

“No no no -- shit,” Eugene trilled as the cockpit, already warm, rapidly became stiflingly hot. He unzipped the top portion of the suit and let it fall around his waist. The walls and floor were becoming too hot to touch. His skin grew taut with the sudden task of keeping all available moisture in. “Ar-Artima -- we can’t...we’ll explode if we don’t...boil alive…” He was thankful for the lack of gravity but even then it felt like the air itself was going to burn him any second now if they didn’t let go. He struggled not to black out, but it happened anyway.

Eugene awoke to a sudden gush of cold air, and judging by the view of them sailing away from an explosion, he hadn’t been out long. He took great, rasping breaths and wished there was water in here, but there was only the eerie quiet of being able to see but not hear what Kheree faced. When the dizziness subsided enough, he picked out that the explosion was the shell of the cruiser and a few grazes. As they continued to press onward, he saw a ring of...fire, or energy, or something, expanding away from them and dying out, leaving reeling suits in its wake in varying states of damage. More importantly was that they weren’t that far out from the Isaribi; he could even pick out the Flauros, which was even closer.

Gjallarhorn was quick to recover; Eugene could pick out their lines reforming. _But we made it! We’re on the other side! We’re --_

One of their own grazes waltzed out into the no-man’s land, raised what Eugene struggled to believe was a Dainsleif railgun, and fired. There was a horrifyingly telling pause on both sides that followed. Gjallarhorn’s lines raised other Dainsleifs. Eugene’s breath caught in his throat. Kheree was turning...

He wasn’t sure whether the noise was another burst of Kheree’s propulsion, the tremendous onslaught of return railgun fire, or his screaming. Or maybe it was Kheree’s -- his view of the outside world guttered for a few moments, then span, and he felt the impacts and the hiss of steam. Panicked diagnostics flashed red over his vision and to his horror, he realized that the only thing keeping them alive was the far harder egg of the cockpit. He was jerked out of the disorientation by Artima’s cries of angered pain -- loud in the small, quiet space, feeling everything Kheree felt -- and he lunged and pressed himself out of the way of her evasive swings and kicks and thrashing. He could feel them spinning head over tail, scraping against debris. He bit his tongue on a particularly hard crash and skitter, and Artima yelled as she sought to right them.

When she managed it, he picked out the salient points: Kheree and everything and everyone else that had been in range -- about half the revolutionary fleet, he guessed -- had been pulverized from the return volley; their propulsion was down to 15% and life support was struggling; and they were drifting about halfway between the Isaribi and the Flauros. The latter looked in even worse shape than they were.

 _Shino,_ Eugene thought, wincing and spitting blood into the air.

The Isaribi hailed them -- he saw it as a soundless flashing in the top right of his vision. McGillis too, somehow, from the top left. Both were minimized.

_What --_

The line of enemy Dainsleifs fired again.

Artima growled, blasting their propulsion once more to both propel them toward the Isaribi and expel heat from Kheree’s armor, hardening it. More impacts, more steam, more horrific juddering. An actual, audible siren complete with flashing red light resounded in the cockpit; his throat tightened and he began to feel lightheaded.  The Isaribi seemed just out of reach, and he could see the Flauros reeling -- failing.

“Shino -- we have to get to Shino. Artima, please…” He squinted. Life support at 10%, propulsion nonexistent, structural integrity of cockpit -- 52%.

 _Hold your breath,_ said Artima, or Kheree, or both.

Eugene barely had time to protest much less do so when the siren shrieked, the air in the cockpit seemed to vanish, and Kheree gave a final lunge. He collapsed at Artima’s feet, gasping and praying as his eyes closed.

 

* * *

 

When his eyes barely broke open, it was to a view down his chest and at first Eugene thought his tie was blood streaming out of his mouth. A cold steel floor was moving under him, but he couldn’t feel his legs moving and something was pulling his right underarm and chest, while something else wrapped around his back. He couldn’t make his neck cooperate to lift his head, and he could practically _feel_ his nanites screaming through the pounding of his head.

Familiar yells, footsteps. His vision jolted side to side and he was dropped. Artima stumbled forward another step and a half and fell, too, blood dripping from her head and face. Her body spasmed on the floor like a bird with broken wings for a few alarming moments; when she finally fell still,  she would have been staring at him had _her_ eyes been open. Glossy red tear tracks had formed stripes down her cheeks, joining those on her neck that’d run from her ears.

“‘Tima…” he tried to raise himself. “Come on, we made it…”

“Eugene!” he heard Nadi’s voice. Large hands were helping him accomplish his wish, and raising him. He felt some of his strength returning, but not quickly enough.

“Her -- help her.”

 

* * *

 

_Artima slowly walked through one of the memories she’d been gifted: the swirling salmon-colored dust of an industrial shipping yard on Mars that gathered in the creases of her skin like rust. Ahead of her, two older boys were playing outside an open discarded shipping container that had been made into a ramshackle home, complete with a tiny greenhouse with a watering system and a repaired solar generator. Inside, a woman with a blonde buzzcut and a gun on her hip was tinkering with something small in her hand under a magnifier. Artima passed into the narrow alley between the home and a pile of iron beams rusted beyond repair; she trailed her hand over the corrugated wall and its flaking cobalt paint. At the back, a blond boy no older than five was crouched, alone, drawing in the dust with an old tool handle. He barely finished one line before the wind swept his slate clean and no amount of trying to shield it with his body was working, but he kept trying. The mop of his hair kept getting in his eyes and he kept swiping it irritably away._

_An open-sided truck swept into view scant feet away; two uniformed men jumped out. The boy dropped his tool handle and screamed, started to run toward the house -- toward Artima -- but was rapidly seized and hauled off. They threw him in the truck first, and then jumped in themselves. The truck’s back tires were already spitting dust over the drawing by the time the other two boys and then the woman made it back there, screaming too._

_Artima’s vision soared, arced away from the house and to the back of the truck as it hurtled away. She saw the lithe woman emerge from the dust cloud at a sprint, her bare, tanned arms and fury lending her the appearance of a lioness. She had her gun extended and was firing at the tires. The boy, meanwhile, was struggling -- kicking and biting and punching with all his strength just to even fall out of the truck. “Mama!” he was shrieking, choking._

_The truck had to navigate a trickier, more crowded portion of the shipyard, which slowed it. The woman come back into view for Artima as she vaulted a cluster of oil barrels, and miraculously gained on them. She felt that spurn of hope in the boy’s chest that leant a more grateful tone to his cries. She’d make it! She’d reach him!_

_“Fucking_ bitch _.”_

_“Lightning Lydia no shit huh.”_

_“Gotta learn to let go.”_

_The cocking of a gun, a large barrel piercing out of the boy’s periphery into front-and-center. The single shot that wiped out his hearing. His mother catapulted backward into the dust out of sight and never rising, his breath left behind with her._

_The pain and confusion of the surgery they never explained -- the months of bad healing and bad training -- the ache and the burning. The other kids that were far more feral. Being called the smartest -- he first taste of blood in his mouth. The dark, Martian cold. Clawing the skin off his belly to try to get the nanites out. His first friend, Rafi, who’d made him a little dog out of spare nuts and bolts for his birthday -- Rafi’s arm reaching out from under the collapsed mobile worker that’d crushed him. Eighteen-hour shifts. The smell of mineral oil in that corner he’d been pushed into by the night warden, the feel of the slimy grit on his knees and palms as he was held down, tried to stand. Making up math problems and doing them for fun, to stave off the gnawing despair in his chest. The aptitude tests, the endless relocations, all those times he’d won the weekly game of bluff. The lice outbreak. The first time he saw a rainbow that wasn’t in an oil slick. The broken fingers. Meeting Shino, Biscuit, Orga, Mikazuki -- telling them he was an orphan, that he couldn’t remember where he came from. Getting good at lying. Hating that particular shade of blue._

This is why, _Artima thought._ This is why I brought you back -- why I brought myself back. Why I lived. Why I went against my plan, and continued to fight. All of you deserve so much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Note from the Author: Clearly we don't know Eugene's past, canonically, and as such I've taken creative license. :)


End file.
